Mr Monk and the Olympic Games
by Bob Wright
Summary: As the Olympics descend on San Francisco, Monk is called in to investigate murder threats on a popular gymnast. But a closer inspection may reveal much more to the story than he'd thought. NOW COMPLETED.
1. Let the Games Begin

MR. MONK AND THE OLYMPIC GAMES

BY

BOB WRIGHT

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Here it comes, the even tenth story (although there will be at least one more after this). Special thanks go to my mother for suggesting this concept, albeit somewhat offhandedly at the time. I do have the deepest respect for the myriad of world cultures that make up our planet, and any perceived cultural stereotypes from characters of other countries in this story is entirely coincidental.

Adrian Monk and all related characters and indicia are registered trademarks of USA Network, Mandeville Films, and Touchstone Television. And now, for the even tenth time, sit back and enjoy the story.

* * *

"Come on, Mr. Monk, they're almost ready to come in," came the anxious call from the den.

"Just, just another minute, I've almost got it," Adrian Monk called back. He turned back to his assistant's broom closet and began systematically counting the various supplies he'd been stockpiling in there. "One hundred bags of vegetables, one hundred packs of garbage bags, one hundred radiation suits, one hundred packs of Summit Creek..." he ticked off his checklist.

A hand came down on his shoulder. "Mr. Monk, I've told you before you don't need to do all this," Natalie Teeger half-scolded him.

"Oh yes I do, Natalie," Adrian countered, "You've seen the warning signs; they're going to suck this city dry by the time this is all over with. We need to prepare in case it takes longer for the city to return to normal."

"Mr. Monk, we've been over this more times than I can count," she sighed, "The Olympians will not strain this city's resources. It is not the end of the world that San Francisco won the rights to host the games this year."

"Maybe not to you," he argued, "But that's because you don't think these things out at all. If you'd..."

"Hurry up, they're at Zambia now," came the call again. Natalie lifted her employer gently up. "Just come on in and watch this if nothing else," she told him, "You did promise Julie that much."

"How convenient you didn't tell me the Parade of Nations would have no color coordination whatsoever," Adrian groused, but he nonetheless followed his assistant into the den; a promise was a promise, after all. Still, his anxiety levels of what hosting the Olympics would do to San Francisco was off the charts, and had only gotten worse as the games had approached. He'd managed to contact his brother and, despite Ambrose's reluctance, had arranged for a fallout shelter for him to be set up in the basement in case the city's resources were catastrophically depleted over the next sixteen days (he did, though, give the IOC credit for choosing an even number of days for its events).

He grimaced as he saw that the delegation from Zemenia was now entering Candlestick Park and lowered his head, the memories of his recent burst of hopeful love still fresh in his mind. "You all right there, Mr. Monk?" Julie asked him from the floor right in front of the television.

"Oh, uh, yes," Adrian said quickly, picking up the hand vacuum he'd brought over and vacuuming the recliner's seat thoroughly before sitting down in it, "You, you are positive we'll see your friend here? I mean, if this turns out to be all for nothing..."

"She's been featured on Wheaties commercials for the last two months, Mr. Monk; you really should watch TV more often," the girl told him. A warm smile crossed her face. "It has been close to eight years since Wendy moved to Texas. This will be the first time I've really seen her face to face since then, basically."

"But, but you do I.O.U her every week, don't you?"

"You mean I.M.," she corrected him, "Yeah, and she's excited like you can't believe. All her life Wendy's been training hard to be in the Olympics, so this is what she's been waiting for. I wanted to join her too, but I found I wasn't quite as good at gymnastics as she was."

"Nor quite as interested when it came down to it," her mother added with a knowing glance, "If I'd known that, maybe I wouldn't have plunked down that two hundred dollars we could have spent..."

"Hold it, Mom, here they come now," Julie held up her hand as the very intense booing that greeted the Zimbabwe delegation gave way to an almost seismic roar as the Stars and Stripes came through the tunnel and into Candlestick. "Oh my God!" Adrian yelped, covering his eyes. "What, what is it?" Natalie asked him.

"Look at their ties, they don't match their suits at all!" Adrian complained, pointing at the screen with his left hand while keep his right hand over his eyes. "We've got to do something, quick," he rushed for the phone and started dialing, "It may not be too late; if we can get through to the network, maybe we can get them to stop tape and hold the parade until they get it fixed."

"Stop a live broadcast in front of three billion people!?" Natalie raised an eyebrow at him.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, Natalie; I thought by now you would have known that..."

"Oh there she is!!" Julie started screaming in delight as the camera focused in on a girl about her age with thick, bushy red hair waving a small American flag and smiling like she had just won the lottery. "So, so that's Wendy, I suppose?" Adrian inquired, putting down the phone (which Natalie immediately snatched up out of his grasp).

"You better believe it!" Julie was eagerly snapping pictures of the screen with her camera phone. Adrian dared to take a glance at the screen and listened as the announcers went on: "...newest sensation in U.S. gymnastics, Wendy Whitehurst just made the national team with a near perfect score in the national preliminaries; experts predict she's a shoe-in to win the individual all-around gold once competition begins, although the Russian team has boasted that they will coast to easy victory themselves. We shall see several days from now. Moving along, here's..."

The phone started ringing. Julie snatched it up. "Yeah, I saw her too!!" she exclaimed, ostensibly to another friend, "I can't believe it either!! We should call her over when she's got an off day and have a party to celebrate it!!"

"Uh, I, I, parties aren't exactly the best...Julie, you really wouldn't need to," Adrian raised his hand, turning white at the very thought of a loud, messy adolescent party inside of the Teegers' house that probably would take him months to clean up.

"Yeah, and I'll get Mr. Monk too; I know she'd like to meet him, I've told her all about him too," the girl patted the detective knowingly on the kneecap. Adrian seized up in terror. "No need to overreact, Mr. Monk," Natalie was almost laughing at his reaction.

"I'm...I'm a dead man," the detective whimpered softly, seeing no way he'd survive such an experience.

* * *

"...Ac, Actually, Natalie, tell Sherry Trudy and I went all the way," the actor playing Adrian was saying on the detective's TV set later that night as he dusted along the ceiling, having noticed a mild concentration of dust building up in the corner. Adrian's brow furled at the line and he could only wonder why he'd ever thought of saying that in the first place. In the end, however, he supposed it didn't matter as much as long as the show itself was still top notch--and from the Nielsen results pouring in, apparently it still was. And better, at last the fervor over the change in assistants he'd had to go through had finally died down as people had seemed to accept Natalie at last (although a handful of diehard Sharonaists still sent him scathing letters every now and then). The producers--now including his father-in-law--had given him extra good news earlier in the week, that due to the show's popularity, they were launching an official book series to go with it, and in fact his father--who'd indicated the last time they'd talked that he was considering trying writing again--would be writing it, albeit under a pen name to avoid charges of nepotism. Adrian himself had helped to give him a couple of ideas from several noteworthy dreams he'd had over the last couple of months--his father had said that one he'd had about his late friend Rusty the fireman had the most potential and probably would be the first to hit shelves, although probably not exactly as Adrian had dreamt it. So now he had so much more to be happy about now that his fears that the series would wither without Sharona had proved unfounded.

He swept up the last bit of dust, sealed it in a plastic bag, climbed down and dumped it in the garbage can. Another crisis averted. He stopped to count his emergency stash of Summit Creek that he'd stockpiled over the last few weeks in case the athletes depleted San Francisco's water supply. Five thousand bottles even, just as he'd hoped. Satisfied, he lay down on the sofa in much the same manner as Trudy had asked him to so many times during their marriage and watched the faux Natalie let the faux Sherry Judd in. Natalie herself had been in high spirits the past week as well given the navy had finally cleared Mitch of charges of sabotaging planes on his base before his death--a crime that had actually been the work of jealous mechanic and militant leader Charles Schickram (although unfortunately the investigation had not gone into what had happened in Kosovo despite his and Natalie's protests to the commission that the official report needed reevaluating, and thus that cloud still remained to be dispersed). The detective had also gotten satisfaction out of the investigation, which had also solidly pinned four additional murders on Frank Nunn over a period of nine years from the testimony of militant members who'd worked with him before, but unfortunately no additional concrete information on the identity of the mysterious Judge had come to light, so the case that mattered most to him remained stuck in neutral.

No matter, he thought to himself as he started dozing off watching his show. Something in his gut told him he was getting closer now, and another clue would present itself in due time...

It was then the phone rang. Adrian bolted upright just as he'd been about to go to sleep. He glanced at his watch: ten to three in the morning. He frowned: who would be calling him at this hour? Usually it was he himself who did the calling this late. "Hello?" he asked when he picked up the receiver.

"Is this Adrian Monk?" came a hyper female voice.

"Yes. And who is this?"

There was deep frantic breathing on the other end of the line before the woman could speak again, "Please don't tell the press, Mr. Monk, I don't want them catching..."

"Slow, slow down a moment there, please," Adrian hustled to his desk and pulled a pack of wipes out of the drawer: given how upset his caller was, she could well be breathing a load of unintended germs in her end of the line for all her knew, "Just, just let me have your name and what..."

"I'm Wendy Whitehurst, Mr. Monk," she said, almost prompting Adrian to drop the receiver in shock, "If you can come down as soon as possible, please do; I think someone's trying to kill me!"


	2. Hired

"Turn it to the left, the left!!" Adrian cried out loud the following morning as Julie tried to back her car into a spot in front of one of the residence halls on the campus at Stanford that the athletes would be staying during the game. There was a loud crash as the car smacked hard into the van behind them. "No, the right, I meant right...not that far, now back!! No, no, your other right, OTHER...oh God in heaven, help her out here!!"

"STOOOOOOPPP!!" the girl screamed at him, looking incredibly nervous herself, "You're only making it harder on me!"

"What am supposed to do when you're trying to kill us!!" the detective shrieked as they rear-ended the pickup in front of them, "Now straight back, straight!!"

"Mr. Monk, that's enough," Natalie leaned over the back seat and gave him a piercing glare, "Let Julie try this on her own, in silence, all right!?"

Cowed, Adrian just managed a weak nod. Nonetheless, he dug through his pocket as the car jerked hard to the right for a pencil and paper and scribbled at the top the words LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. He was jerked hard forward as Julie hit the brakes just a little too hard. "How's that?" she asked her mother nervously.

"I'd say that's pretty good," Natalie nodded in approval.

"We're not in straight, I just know we're not," Adrian dared to say. Julie shut off the engine with a hard gesture and climbed out. "You have to be a little more patient when she tries to park," Natalie told her employer firmly, "It's going to take time for her to get it perfect."

Adrian hopped out and glanced at the car--crooked by a couple inches, a distance only he could discern--and the damage to the vehicles in front and behind them. He hoped Natalie had far more patience than he did, for by his estimates it was going to take Julie about ninety years at this rate to get it right. "What, what room did they say they were in again?" he asked his assistant as they headed for the dormitory.

"Number one sixty-seven," Natalie read off a piece of paper in her hand, "Her mother's going to be waiting for us."

"Well, that's probably the problem right there," Adrian shrugged, "I'd want to kill someone for staying in an odd-numbered room."

Both Teegers ignored him. The three of them walked up the stairs to the second floor. All up and down the hall, athletes stood inside their rooms, reading or working out at whatever sports they would be participating in. Adrian averted his eyes at the sight of several bare-chested weightlifters trying to bench press what he hoped was an even hundred pounds in room 134. He was glad the viewing public around the world never had to suffer the indignity of seeing the athletes like this--although given how revealing so many Olympic uniforms seemed to be these days, perhaps what they actually saw was bad enough.

"Hey, Natalie, down here," came the call from up the hall. A slender woman with glasses was standing outside Room 167 with a big smile on her face. Natalie herself was smiling too now. "Marissa, oh, I thought I'd find you here with Wendy," she hugged the woman, "She in here with you?"

A loud excited scream from Julie more or less answered that question. The girl barrelled into the room, where a beaming Wendy was seated on the bed, and gave her friend a huge hug. "I saw you last night!" she exclaimed, "You must be so proud to have made it at last!"

"Hey, never mind me, what about you?" Wendy gasped happily, "I'd say you've gotten even bigger than me now! I never miss a show; whoever they've got playing you, she's great, it's like it's really you there! And this is Monk himself!"

"Yes, yes, I'm Adrian Monk; the real, real Adrian Monk," the detective reluctantly shook her outstretched hand and waved at Natalie for a wipe, "Glad, glad you like the show; I hope the ratings don't crash while this nightmare they call a sporting event goes on," he bustled to the window and pushed the drapes around until the hangers on each side were equidistant from each other, "So, um, Wendy, you, uh, did call me last night about someone trying to kill you?"

Mrs. Whitehurst quickly pushed the door to the room closed. "First of all, Mr. Monk, we'd like to ask you not tell the papers about this," she said solemnly, "We don't want any undue attention coming down on us. But I should tell you that someone..." she took an uncomfortable breath, "Someone might be after my daughter. It started about a month ago after Wendy made the national team. We'd just come home from a celebratory dinner at the local McDonald's in Lufkin, and we found a note under the door saying Wendy didn't belong on the team and had better quit immediately. It didn't list any specific threats, so we didn't take it seriously at the time. Then three days ago when we checked in here, we found another note saying we'd used up our last chance, and that whoever wrote it was going to draw blood," she choked up at that prospect. "We notified security, and they promised to keep an eye on the room for us.

"During the Parade of Nations last night," Wendy piped up, looking green at thought of what she was about to relate, "When we passed by the east side of the stadium by the Olympic flagpole, I heard something zing by my ear. It was definitely a bullet; I saw a gun barrel flashing in the seats about ten rows up from the bottom. I guess with the noise and lights, no one else noticed anything."

"Did you happen to get a look at who you think might have fired it?" Natalie asked, concerned.

"Not really," the redhead shook her head, "The face was a blur in the mass of people, and we had to keep going around the stadium, so I couldn't really stop and look. But if that was bad, it was nothing compared to what happened when we got back. Mom?"

She looked imploringly at her mother to spare her the agony of telling what happened next. Mrs. Whitehurst was more than up to it. "I met Wendy outside Candlestick after the Opening Ceremony ended and drove her back here," she told them, "When we opened the door, we found this lying on the floor. Brace yourselves, because you might find this a little hard to stomach. We certainly couldn't."

Her hand shaking, she opened the closet door. Adrian immediately felt the urge to throw up himself; lying there was a dead Irish wolfhound run through with five sabers. Attached to the handle of one was a note written ominously in blood: TAKE THE FLOOR WHEN THE COMPETITION STARTS AND WHITEHURST'S BLOOD SHALL RUN RED. EVERYWHERE YOU LOOK, I'LL BE THERE. I AM EVERYWHERE. "Was, was there any way someone could have gotten in while you were out?" he managed to say, gesturing at Natalie to give him several vomit bags in case his stomach couldn't hold.

"I don't really see how, Mr. Monk," Mrs. Whitehurst shook her head, "It takes a special code key to open this door, and I had it in my purse the whole time. And the window locks from the inside, and Wendy definitely locked it shut before she left for the Opening Ceremonies, didn't you honey?"

Wendy nodded, shaking noticeably at the thought that someone might be after her. "Do you have any ideas, Mr. Monk?" she asked the detective.

Adrian walked around the room making several hand gestures. "Would, would you happen to know if anyone would have any reason to want to do this?" he asked once he was finished.

"No," Wendy shook her head emphatically, "I really have no idea what this could be all about, honest."

"Well Mr. Monk's going to have this under wraps soon, so don't you worry," Julie reassured her.

"Hey, if he's half as good in person as he is on TV, I'll bet he'll have whoever it is in prison by this time tomorrow," Wendy smiled confidently.

"Well, let's, let's not get overly optimistic," Adrian quickly swung the closet door shut with his foot; the dead dog was seriously affecting his concentration. He walked around the room once more. "Here's, here's the thing, I can't really get anything out of what's here," he announced when he was finished, "Nobody broke in here, and the window wasn't opened at all. You're absolutely sure you had the code key at all times, Mrs. Whitehurst?"

"I swear on my life it never left my purse," she told him.

"Very interesting," Adrian paced around the room a third time, stopping to peer under the bed and desk for signs of a tunnel. None were present. "Here's, here's what we can do now; I'll call the captain and try to get security on you twenty-four/seven," he told Wendy, "Then we'll get the surveillance tapes from downstairs and see if anyone came up here. And then we'll get the main security people for this circus they call a sporting event and check the Opening Ceremonies; tenth row on the east side of Candlestick, you said?"

Wendy thought it over carefully. "Yes, definitely," she nodded.

"That's all I can give you now, but don't, don't worry, I'll find out what's going on here," the detective assured her, "Natalie, call the captain."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the familiar car of Captain Leland Stottlemeyer slid far more smoothly into a parking space across from the dormitory. The captain climbed out and tossed his cigar to the street, grinding it out with his foot. "Monk, Natalie, thanks for calling," he greeted them, "Sorry I'm..." he paused and watched in curiosity as Adrian rushed for the cigar, picked it up with his tweezers, bagged it, and properly disposed of it in the nearest garbage can. "As I was saying, sorry I'm late, but unfortunately we had to make an unnecessary pit stop," he turned and glared at the passenger side door as Lieutenant Randall Disher climbed out, his arms bulging with Olympic merchandise. "Well sir, this is once in a lifetime; might as well stock up while we're here," the lieutenant defended himself. "Hey Natalie," he half stumbled over to her with his arms overloaded, "Think Julie'll like some of these plushies?"

He sandwiched two large stuffed dolls of the Games' albatross mascot between his index and middle fingers and held them up. "Probably," Natalie nodded, "She's upstairs keeping Wendy company until we get back."

"And thus we will deliver them after we finish," Stottlemeyer said sternly to Disher as he started towards the dormitory, "All right, what do you know so far, Monk?"

"Not that much," Adrian related what the Whitehursts had told him. "I see," Stottlemeyer said softly once he was done, "Well, unfortunately you'll have to tell them I can't really spare anyone extra for her safety; every damn cop in this city's already tied down for the next two weeks keeping the crowds in check.

"Which, which brings me to another point; you're sure we can't take some of the people out of the city?" Adrian had to ask. Stottlemeyer ignored the question. "In the meantime, I'll call the law in Texas and see if there's been any disturbances in the Whitehursts' neighborhood; maybe there's a history of this they didn't tell you about. Then we'll run an ID scan on everyone connected with the Olympic gymnastic team; maybe our perp's connected to one of the contenders she beat out for that last spot on the team. First, though, I think your guess to check the security tape's right, Monk, so let's go do that next. Make whatever room you can find back there."

His words came out a little late, as Natalie opened the back door of the captain's car and had to jump back to avoid a cascade of plush figures, pennants, T-shirts, and other memorabilia stacked in the back seat. "You really had to buy this much?" she asked Disher, her eyebrows raised, "How much did all this cost?"

"Enough that I could have used to gas up for the rest of the week," Stottlemeyer shot his adjutant another disappointed look. Disher shrugged and hastily got into the front passenger seat. A brisk twenty minute ride brought them to what they'd learned was going to be the main Olympic security headquarters inside a converted warehouse near Fisherman's Wharf. "Now I should probably give all of you a little pointer before you go in here," the captain told the others as they approached the warehouse, "If you've read the papers, you'll know Travers Security won the local rights to keep the Games safe. I know Ernie Travers; he was on the force when I first started. Unfortunately, he was a little, how shall I say, off upstairs after a rough couple of trips through Nam, so they let him go a year and a half later after he went schizoid during a big drug bust. From what I've heard, he's still a little loony upstairs, so if you..."

Disher pressed the button to the intercom. Immediately, the sound of machine gun fire rang out, sending the four of them diving the ground. A slot in the door slid open, and the barrel of a very real M-1 was thrust out. "Identify yourselves!!" barked a loud, authoritative voice.

"Captain Leland Stottlemeyer, S.F.P.D.," the captain grumbled out loud, "So there's no need to be so glad to see us, Ernie."

The gun was withdrawn and the slot slammed shut. The door creaked slowly open, and a pair of wide, bloodshot eyes appeared. "Badge and/or other identification please," he demanded. Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes and showed his badge and driver's license. "Right, Leland, good to see you," Travers said, opening the door all the way, "Can't be too careful; you never know what nuts are going to be out and about during the next two weeks."

"Right," the captain mumbled softly, "Ernie, this is Adrian Monk, as I'm sure you already know since everybody on the planet probably knows him by now; he's got something we could use your help on."

Adrian told Travers about Wendy's problems. A gleam lit up in the security chief's eye when he was finished. "I knew it," he mumbled in triumph, "They're at it again. They've been waiting since the war ended, and now they're choosing the Games to make their move. Well, we're good and ready, and they don't stand a chance."

"They being...?" the detective inquired.

"Undercover Vietcong operatives, probably connected with that rabble driving us crazy today," Travers waved them inside, "Well, anything you need, you've got it. We'll beat them at their game before..."

There was another knock on the door behind them. Travers threw open the slot and thrust his gun out again. "Identify yourself!" he barked again.

"Package!?" whimpered a pale mailman holding a package.

"Put on the ground and up against the wall; keep your hands where I can see them!" Travers ordered. He stepped outside and shook the package. "Clear," he nodded to the mailman, "Dismissed."

The mailman scurried off. "Anyway," Stottlemeyer said his former associate was back inside, "We'd like the tape of the Opening Ceremony if you have it, Ernie."

"Follow me, Leland, we'll have it all set up for you," Travers gestured for them to follow him upstairs. There was a blinding flash as Disher unexpectedly took a picture of everyone. Adrian shielded his eyes as best he could. "What was that for!?" he demanded.

"Oh, just wanted to savor the moment, Monk, to remember the time you weren't the craziest guy in the room," the lieutenant told him. His jaw was still hanging open from Travers's actions prior.

"Seriously, I don't know how this guy gets to run his own security company," Natalie was also largely in surprise as well.

"What can I say, I don't understand half of what the mayor allows these days," Stottlemeyer shrugged. The four of them trudged up the stairs into the nerve center of the security operation. About two dozen security personnel sat hunched over numerous monitors showing images all over San Francisco of various Olympic venues. Adrian's eyes widened in delight as he took the room in. "It's perfect," he exclaimed softly, "It's perfectly organized, everything's color-coordinated, looks spotlessly clean--hold, hold on," he gestured at Natalie for a wipe, then walked over to the nearest monitor showing a cycling race in progress down Russian Hill and wiped off a barely noticeable dirt mark from the screen. "You'll thank me later," he told the astonished technician, "Now, now it's perfect."

"Yes indeed, everything has to be perfect," Travers proclaimed, "I hold my company to the highest standards of security (several technicians softly snickered at this). But first things first. Boyd," he snapped at a scrawny technician in the corner, "Last night's tape. Monk here needs something to look at; he thinks the Vietcong's up to no good."

"Well, you, you do," Adrian corrected him. He hunched over the monitor as Boyd inserted the security tape of the Opening Ceremony. "Take, take it to where our team goes past the Olympic flagpole," he directed him. Boyd fast forwarded to that very moment. "Stop here," the detective instructed him at the key moment. He squinted at the spot ten rows up. "Natalie, can you make him out?" he asked her.

Natalie glanced hard at the screen. "I really can't make out anything," she admitted, "It would have helped if Wendy had a betteer view of him.

"Maybe this can help," Boyd clicked a few buttons, and the picture zoomed in. "A little closer if you can," Adrian asked him. When the picture zoomed in as close as it could, the detective noticed a figured in a baseball cap and dark glasses at about the spot Wendy had said with something shiny in his hand. "That, that might be him," he announced.

"Isolate and clarify," Travers ordered Boyd, who did just that. "Yep, we've got him," the security chief clapped his hands, "We've got their undercover American operative exposed for who he is."

"Hang on a sec," Stottlemeyer leaned closer and examined the picture carefully, "Are we absolutely sure that's a gun he's got there? It could well be a tin cup a camera from what I can see. Can't you get it any clearer?"

"This is as good as this software allows," Boyd admitted.

"Well, should we put out an A.P.B. for him, sir?" Disher asked his superior.

"Why? I've seen better pictures of the Loch Ness Monster," the captain shook his head, "He's too generic from this angle too; we need a better image. So what we can do is alert everyone at the venues to let us know if they see someone that looks like this."

"Consider it done," Travers pressed a button on the main console. "Attention all personnel," he ordered, presumably to all his operatives, "Be on the lookout for a suspicious character fitting the following description," he gestured at Boyd, who punched a few more buttons, "Consider to be dangerous, shoot to incapacitate."

Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes. "We'll also check Candlestick to see if we can find that bullet or any other evidence that got left behind," he told the others, "Other than that, that's pretty much all we can do right now with a body or injury."

"But what about Wendy's safety?" Natalie protested, "You're absolutely sure you can't keep someone on her? Whoever this is, they could hit again at any time."

"Natalie, I told you before, I'd love to, but there's no one else to spare," the captain shook his head.

"Well there has to be..." she stopped, and a look slowly came into her eyes--a look Adrian had long since come to dread as a sign she was about to try and force him into doing something he'd rather not do. He tried to hastily sneak towards the door, but she cut him off before he could reach it. "Mr. Monk, I know what we can do," she told him.

"It, it probably won't work, sorry," he said quickly. Natalie ignored him and reached for the newspaper lying on the counter top next to them. "I know you don't read the papers, so you might want to know the Olympic judges went on strike over low pay two weeks ago," she told him, "The I.O.C.'s looking for replacements. We could watch a number of events for whoever the stalker is."

"In front of thousands of people? You want me to put my life on the line in front of thousands of people who would be watching my every move?" he protested.

"I would hope you would. For Wendy's sake," she enunciated each word very sharply. Adrian, however, shook his head firmly. "You're, you're forgetting I'm still the boss, Natalie, and the answer's no, and nothing you say or do will make me change my mind," he said, putting his hands on his hips to make a more affirmative point, "I will not be an Olympic judge no matter what."


	3. Mr Monk is an Olympic Judge

"You're a diseased maniac, you know that?" Adrian grumbled to Natalie as they sat on the bench outside the temporary office of the president of the I.O.C. inside Candlestick.

"You'll thank me later," she told him, a wry smile crossing her lips to be able to use his own common phrase on her own.

"But you know I won't," the detective countered, "And you're forgetting the one obvious problem with me going undercover: since I'm the focus of a show currently being shown in over two hundred countries, the thousands of people watching me out there will recognize me on sight, and so will the would-be killer."

"They're not going to have the cameras pointed at you, Mr. Monk," Natalie told him, "And you can come up with a cover name if that's what it'll take to keep this undercover."

"Regardless, henceforth you can never talk me into anything again by using the excuse that..." Adrian started to gripe, but it was then the door to the office opened up. "Mr. Ghazi shall see you now," announced the president's secretary, a man from Guinea-Bissau, Adrian had determined. Sighing, he rose up and entered the office. He would have liked to have said that the whole thing had been a mistake then and there, but as Stottlemeyer, liking the idea of sending Adrian undercover (making him wonder if Natalie was using some kind of subversive mind control he knew nothing about), had already called ahead to inform the I.O.C. of their plans, that was already dead in the water. Nonetheless, he tried to force what passed for a happy expression as he approached the desk of I.O.C. president Akbar Ghazi of Tunisia, two time gold medal winner in archery at the Montreal and Moscow games. "Mr. Monk, it is a pleasure to meet you," the elderly man greeted him with a hardy handshake, "How are you this afternoon?"

"Could, could be better, Mr. Ghazi," Adrian waved for a wipe, "I, I guess by now you know what we're here for."

"Indeed I am. Please, have a seat," Ghazi gestured to a set of armchairs clumped near his desk. He stared as Adrian pushed the one on the right over so it would be equidistant from the one on the left, but apparently decided not to say anything. "I've reviewed the information your captain gave us," he told the detective, an uncomfortable expression crossing his face, "And I am more than prepared to accommodate your request to protect Ms. Whitehurst at all costs. You may recall I participated in the Munich games as well, and as you can expect, the memories of what happened there have stuck with me all these years. Now I suppose you are familiar with the rules of our various events, Mr. Monk?"

"I am, yes I am," Adrian glanced at the ceiling to avoid having to look at a blind piece on the window that was stuck in an upwards position.

"Very good," Ghazi handed him several pieces of paper, "I just need you to fill these out to make it official. Due to the shortage of officials, we'll be rotating our judges around to numerous events over the course of the Olympiad. I'll need you to handle the beach volleyball finals at the harbor today at four, if that would be fine by you. You can pick up your judge's uniform downstairs before you leave. Just keep me informed of anything you find. Have you any questions?"

"One, actually, yes; do you think you could add another ring to the Olympic flag?" Adrian asked, tamping the papers down so they all lined up perfectly, "It would make it even. An orange or purple ring for Antarctica, that would be good."

Ghazi stared at him incredulously. "Well, Mr. Monk, you do realize there's a good reason we don't include Antarctica in the Olympic movement," he told the detective, "I don't think penguins and leopard seals would make ideal athletes."

"You, you could train them, then maybe in about twenty years they'll be up to..."

Natalie gave him a brisk tapping on the shoulder to indicate he was going too far again. "Well, it was just a thought," he shrugged, turning back to the paperwork that would make him a judge.

* * *

"You look great, Mr. Monk, really," she commended him later as they approached the beach volleyball stadium.

"You think ANY uniform I wear makes me look great, Natalie," Adrian told her, fidgeting with the suit's tie. He was a bit uncomfortable with the color scheme the I.O.C. had designed for this Olympiad: blue tuxedo, white pants, and the tie, which had no color coordination itself. "I am going to stick out like a sore thumb even if the cameras aren't trained on me."

"No you won't," Natalie reassured him, "Now I'll be with Wendy in the front row behind you; the captain made those arrangements. Signal if you see anything suspicious and I'll get him for you."

"Signal? How am I supposed to signal in front of all these people without tipping the killer off? And what kind of signal are you going on about?"

"Just think of whatever makes you most comfortable," she told him, stopping as they reached the judges' entrance. "Here's where you go in. Just don't forget where I am."

Adrian took a deep breath and walked inside. He undid the tie completely and tried to redo it as he followed the sound of voices from the office in the corner of the room. Three men and a woman in similar uniforms as his own were huddled in a corner, conversing. Adrian cleared his throat. "I, uh, I'm told I'll be working with all of you today," he announced.

"Oh, you you're the new one," the tallest judge, a Hispanic, shook his hand, prompting him to dig through his pockets for a wipe, "We got word you'd be coming down. And you are...?"

"My name...my name..." Adrian thought hard for a reasonable alias to use. Then it hit him what the perfect name would be. "I'm...I'm Charles Kroger," he said slowly, his face contorting in pain at the thought of his former psychiatrist, "And you are...?"

"Carlos Lagos, Peru," the Hispanic shook his hand, "This is my fourth Olympiad. We'll be working with these people," he gestured at his associates, "Allow me to introduce Anton Krajic of Poland, Floriana Cadorna of Italy, and Moses Parkinson of Cameroon."

"A, uh, pleasure," Adrian reluctantly shook all their hands and pulled out more wipes. The judges stared at him, their jaws hanging open. "Don't, don't mind me, just, just standard operating procedure," he told them, "I do have extras if you need them."

"You know, Charles, you look awfully familiar," Krajic looked him over, "Have I seen you before?"

"Um, no, I don't think so," Adrian said quickly, handing him a set of wipes for himself, "I, I do get that a lot, though. So, it's beach volleyball, is it? Anyone done that before."

"The last Olympiad I did," Cadorna was looking at him in a way that made him a hair uncomfortable, "Just remember, every serve scores. Has anyone every told you that you have the loveliest hair, Charles?"

"Uh, th-th-thank you, it, it came with the head," Adrian sputtered out the words, "Um, well, if we're ready, let's, let's get down to business and get, get the game underway."

* * *

"I think it's good, Charles," Parkinson called to him, a tinge of impatience in his voice.

"Just, just a little more," Adrian called back. He squatted down and moved his file along the sand on the court, painstakingly trying to even it out. He'd been at it for close to a half hour by now, and he could tell the crowd was starting get a bit restless. The teams, from New Zealand and Argentina, were definitely impatient, walking around in tight circles, making the detective realize he didn't have much longer. He leveled out the final section of sand and hustled back to the judges' table. "We're, we're good to go now," he told his fellow judges.

Lagos waved the players forward onto the court. "It didn't have to be perfect, Charles," he told him.

"Oh let it go, Carlos, he's just being efficient," Cadorna fixed Adrian with a gaze that made him flinch, "I appreciate men who are efficient."

"Um, uh, very, very nice," Adrian couldn't help jerking his chair to the left away from her. He glanced backwards up into the stands. There was Wendy and the Teegers right behind him as promised. He glanced up into the stadium. No immediate sign of the attacker. He fidgeted with the tie once more before returning to the game at hand. The New Zealand team sent the first serve to the Argentinians, who shifted backwards to return, displacing a lot of sand in the process. The ball went back and forth for about a minute before the New Zealanders missed a return, giving their opponents the first point. "Time," Adrian abruptly called. He hustled out to the court and tried to level the sand out again, to loud groans from the players. This took about ten minutes before he was satisfied. "Continue," he gestured at the players, returning to his seat. Unfortunately, the next serve messed up even more sand, prompting him to call more time. This time the entire stadium was groaning as he evened out the sand; indeed, he could make out Natalie sternly mouthing, "You're blowing your cover!" as he returned to the table again. "_I can't help it; they're messing it up_," he mouthed back. Nonetheless, he decided to stay put and fix the damage after the match. Unfortunately, the match quickly turned into a tight game, with the New Zealanders and Argentinians in a dead heat.

The score was in fact tied at sixteen apiece, and as Adrian was taking advantage of a score by Argentina to once again fix the tie, that he noticed something in the upper deck behind him. He squinted hard against the sun. It looked very much like the figure he'd seen on the tape earlier in the day. The person may or may not have noticed him in turn, as he or she rose at that moment and walked towards one of the exits. "Time," the detective called out just as New Zealand's captain had sent the ball into the air. The Argentinians turned in shock at this pronouncement, and as such one was bonked in the head by the ball.

"Now what!?" Krajic asked, irritated.

"Um, uh, bathroom break," Adrian spit out the first thing that came to his mind. He rushed for the stands, making a waving gesture towards Natalie. "I think I've seen him," he told her when she approached the edge of the seats, "Upper deck back there, he's...what?"

"Wendy just stepped out for a Coke," the words were barely out of Natalie's mouth when the sound of loud shouts from the nearest exit, and security officials could be seen running towards it. His heart in his throat, the detective vaulted over the fence and barrelled up the stairs after the officers. Sure enough, a sight he didn't want to see greeted him once under the stadium: a large crowd gathered near one of the refreshment stands, and inside the crowds loud crying could be heard. Adrian rushed over and tried to push his way through the crowd. "Wendy, what happened!?" he asked breathlessly, "Did he...?"

"He jumped me!!" Wendy's voice was pained as she clutched her chest in agony, "He came at me with a bat! He went that way!!"

She pointed at the exit. Adrian rushed over and glanced around, but the assailant had vanished. The detective sighed. This was going to be even harder than he'd imaged, and he now wondered if anything he did to protect Wendy would work at all.


	4. The Other Side of the Story

"OK everyone, step back please," Stottlemeyer announced loudly as he arrived on the scene shortly after the attack, noticing a swarm of paparazzi surrounding Wendy, "Official police business, please step back and let Miss Whitehurst alone for a few seconds if you can."

"Captain, do you think this is part of some foreign threat or attempt to sabotage the Games?" a reporter shoved a microphone right in his face.

"Do you have any proof of previous attacks?" demanded another.

"What precautions are you going to take from here on to protect Wendy and the other athletes here?" a third asked sharply.

"All right, all right, we're working on it, when we know anything, we'll let you know," the captain muttered out loud in frustration, "Now please disperse."

"Captain, is it true the police are spread too thin to do anything about this?" another reporter asked, leading to a forest of microphones being shoved right in his face.

"You heard the man, back off, all of you!!" Mrs. Whitehurst irately rose up from her position over her daughter and waved her arms like a windmill, prompting the reporters to obligingly step back several paces. "Thank you," Stottlemeyer commended her. He bent down towards Wendy, still seated on the floor looking deeply pained. "How does it feel now?" he asked the gymnast sympathetically.

"Hurts a lot more than I thought something like this would," Wendy's face was still flushed with pain from the blow to her chest.

"Well we've got medical aid coming soon, we're going to make sure you're taken care of," Natalie rubbed her shoulder.

"Just try and have me out by four; I'm supposed to shoot another Wheaties commercial before practice starts," the girl told her, "Whoever it is might think I'm giving in if I don't go..."

"Well, that's going to be contingent on what the doctors and I myself say from here on," Stottlemeyer informed her firmly. He walked over to Adrian, pacing around in tight circles making his familiar hand gestures. "What've you got on this so far, Monk?" he asked his go-to man.

"I'm still trying to piece it together, Captain," without turning around, Adrian held up his hands in a framing gesture, "Wendy says she was buying a hot dog here when he came around that corner and came at her with the bat. Now what I'm wondering..."

"Captain," Disher came jogging up with a middle aged couple in tow, "These two got the best look at him out of everyone I asked."

"Wonderful," Stottlemeyer turned to the witnesses, "For starters, you two are...?"

"Ed and Kate Logan," the man told them, "We were over there by the popcorn stand by the bathroom, when this guy threw open the door, rushed over there and...well," he pointed towards Wendy on the floor, "I think you know the rest."

"What did he look like?" the captain inquired.

"Oh, I'd say about six foot three, I think; roughly as big as Ed," Kate told him, "He was wearing dark glasses and a ski mask, so we didn't so the face, but he was wearing a green and gold jacket. He also was breathing rather heavily and walked a little sitffly."

"Captain," Adrian had been taking the conversation in. He waved his boss over to the tunnel leading back into the stadium. "Something's not quite right here," he told Stottlemeyer and Disher when they joined him. "They said he came out of the bathroom. I saw the guy in the upper deck about thirty seconds before the attack. There's no way he could have gotten down to the ground level that quickly, even if he was running as fast as he could."

"That is a bit strange, Monk," Stottlemeyer mused with a frown, "How did he get down here that quickly, then?"

"Hold on a minute," Disher shifted through his notes, "You said he wore green and gold, Mrs. Logan?" he called back to the witnesses.

"Yes," Kate confirmed for him, "Why?"

Disher snapped his fingers. "I've got it, sir," he told Stottlemeyer.

"Got what?"

"How he got down here so quickly."

"How?"

"He's Jamaican."

"Huh?"

"Green and gold are their national colors, sir," Disher pulled out an official Olympic program, leafed through it to the Js and held it up for the captain to see.

"So what does that have to do with anything, Lieutenant?" Stottlemeyer looked completely lost.

"Like I said, it explains how he got down from the upper deck so quickly."

"How?"

"He used a bobsled, sir."

Stottlemeyer staggered backwards in disbelief. "And you're going to stand by that, Randy?" he mumbled numbly.

"Uh, yeah. He had it hidden in the upper deck somewhere and slid down the girders outside the stadium to ground level. Why?"

"OK, where to start?" the captain rolled his eyes in disgust, "First, let me remind you these are the SUMMER games; second, even taking that into account, don't you think a bobsled would be a hair conspicuous when there's a thousand or so people here!?"

"Um,..." Disher thought this very noticeable flaw in his theory over hard, then snapped his fingers again. "He used a bobsled with an invisibility switch."

Stottlemeyer calmly turned, walked into the nearby restroom, knelt down by the toilet closest to the door, and began slamming the seat down on his head in frustration repeatedly. "OK," he said firmly once he had vented and returned, "That all being said, we're going to take what we've got here and follow up on that. Which," he held up his hand as Disher opened his mouth to speak, "Will NOT involve having a medium contact John Candy's spirit so we can ask him if he knows anything about a renegade bobsledding assassin. I want the security feeds from all the cameras in this stadium; one of them has to have a good shot of his car when he left, and..."

"Hold on sir, do you hear something?" Disher raised his hand. Sure enough, a low thumping could be heard from a nearby trash can. Stottlemeyer threw up his hands in resignation. "I should have guessed," he mumbled out loud. He casually strolled over to the can and pushed the flap open. "Hello Ernie, still trying your hand at undercover security work, I see," he said into the opening.

"Damn it Leland, shut it; you'll blow my cover!" Travers hissed, causing everyone in the vicinity to stare at the can in amazement. Stottlemeyer pulled the top off the can. "If you were right here the whole time, tell me at least you got a glimpse of the guy?" he inquired.

"I was detained," Travers grumbled defensively as he climbed out of the can, covered in garbage (prompting Adrian to turn towards the wall so he wouldn't have to look at him), "Some idiot dumped a whole tray on top of me in there thinking this was a real garbage can. It happened while I was trying to clean myself off; by the time I got the flap back open, the lousy Commie was gone."

"Well Ernie, hate to burst your bubble, but this is probably no Commie we're dealing with here," the captain sighed.

"Even if not, I just know he'll strike again," Travers continued, oblivious, "So before I got set up here, I called the FBI; they'll put their best people on this with us."

"Did you have to do that?" Stottlemeyer slapped his head in frustration, "You do know I hate working with those..."

"Pardon me, Captain Stottlemeyer," a security guard was coming up to them carrying something in his arms, "A couple witnesses outside saw him running around to the far side of the stadium before he disappeared. We found these in the dumpster out back."

He handed the objects to Disher. "Stilts," the lieutenant mused, "That explains why he had a stiff walk."

Adrian sized up the stilts and walked back and forth in place. "He's about five eight, Captain," he told Stottlemeyer, his face squinting as he tried to pinpoint the exact seat he'd seen the assailant in earlier, "Check for whoever bought the ticket to Section Four, Row Eighteen, Seat Thirteen; that's the guy."

"Right, gotcha Monk," Stottlemeyer waved Disher towards the ticket office near the stadium entrance, "Maybe we'll get this guy sooner than we think."

"Hey," Natalie came running up, "The ambulance just showed up; they're going to let you guys know what the damage is once they run the tests, but Wendy looks fine to me. Her mother did ask us to stop by gymnastic practice around six to let the coach know what the prognosis is; the medics said they should know by then."

"Good," the captain nodded, "One less crisis to worry about. Now to get..."

"Hey Charles, an impatient looking Lagos stuck his head out the tunnel, "Is this bathroom break of yours going to take much longer? Everyone's getting very restless out here waiting!"

"Be, be right there," Adrian called back. "Well," he shrugged hesitantly to the others, "Might as well get back to work, for what it's worth."

* * *

"I told you putting me under cover like that was a mistake," the detective was grousing to his assistant as they pulled up in front of Maples Pavilion, which was set to host the gymnastics competition in a few days.

"I think you're doing just fine, Mr. Monk," Natalie told him.

"You don't want to admit you're wrong for once," he countered, "Doesn't it mean anything to you the other spectators started throwing things onto the court at me after that last point? I thought as partners, as you put it so succinctly, we're supposed to look out for each other, so let me say for the record that if that's still your stance, you're failing your end miserably."

"Well that's your problem, you're only looking at the glass half empty again; because you went along with this we've now got leads that..."

Adrian pointedly climbed out of the car before she could answer, even though he had to concede she was right that they'd gotten what they knew now from taking the judging job. "Now, um, these gymnasts," he asked Julie as she got out as well, "They, they will be...clothed, right?"

"Don't worry, you won't see anything you don't want to," she told him with just a little tinge of frustration; the detective could tell that Wendy's latest mishap had been weighing heavily on her all afternoon, "But be warned, a lot of what they do in here might get you worked up, just so you know."

"Worked up in what way?"

"For you, EVERY way," she informed him.

"That bad, huh?" he nodded softly, "Well, let's hope God's on our side. We may not come out alive, then."

Both Teegers rolled their eyes. Inside the pavilion, a half dozen or so young women wearing the expected red, white, and blue gymnastic garb were working out at various equipment. Adrian was immediately overwhelmed in terror at the sight of one of them trying out one particular piece. "Hey, hey, hey!!" he cried out, running over to the uneven bars, "Come down! You're in grave danger!"

The girl on it--a short haired brunette--abruptly stopped in the middle of a twirl around the higher bar. "Why?" she asked, confused.

"These are the uneven bars!" Adrian gestured at the apparatus.

"And!?"

"And!? And!? They're UNEVEN!!" he spelled it out for her, "This equipment is evil, it's Satanic! You're life's in grave danger as long as...!"

"Excuse me, mister," the coach, a balding man with an American flag jacket, tapped him hard on the shoulder, "I really don't like anyone disturbing my...oh, you're Monk? I got the call you were coming."

"Yes, I'm, I'm Adrian Monk," the detective reluctantly shook the coach's hand when he offered it, then waved at Natalie for a wipe, "You're Norm Shute?"

"That I am," the coach nodded, "What's the latest update on Wendy?"

"You don't have to worry," Natalie approached him, "We got the call from the hospital; no lasting damage, just a bruise or too. Apparently the attacker didn't get that good a shot at her, or it could have been worse."

"Well that's a relief in more ways than one," Coach Shute nodded, "At least for once this is legitimately a case for..."

"Wait, wait, legitimately?" Adrian raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, well, nothing, except that, well, frankly, Wendy has been getting on my nerves a little the last few weeks with all these commercials she's shooting," Coach Shute told him with a sour expression, "I concede that sponsorship is part and parcel of the Games these days, but I can't accept that she's repeatedly late to practice because of it. After three weeks, I thought I'd gotten my point across, but..."

"No, no, no, no!!" Adrian gasped loudly, seeing another gymnast was pounding chalk onto her hands in preparation for an exercise on the rings. He seized the wipes from Natalie and rushed towards the girl. "What on earth are you doing!?" he demanded, pushing the wipes towards her, "Quick, clean it off or it'll never come off!!"

"Are you supposed to be wacko or something?" the girl raised an eyebrow at him.

"They say that a lot, but right now I'm just a concerned citizen asking you to wash your hands clean in the name of humanity," he gestured with the wipes. The girl rolled her eyes, but complied. Just stay back, please," she asked him firmly as she leaped up onto the rings and began spinning around. Adrian, however, had no intention of doing so when she was putting her life in such complete jeopardy. "No, no, with both hands!!" he pleaded desperately, "Not upside down!! No, no, the other...!!"

He was abruptly kicked in the face--whether by accident or design he didn't know and didn't really care. "You all right there?" Coach Shute came over to him.

"Good, good, but I'd recommend a safer routine," the detective grimaced, clutching his jaw.

"That's my prize routine," the girl on top protested loudly, "It's not my fault you were..."

"All right, Katie, I know it was an accident," Coach Shute reassured him. He looked Adrian in the face and almost pleaded, "Thank you for the good news with Wendy, but please just let my girls work, OK? We're all trying to bring home the gold here, so if you can wait over on that bench there, I think we'd all be very happy."

"Could, could you at least take those uneven bars away, or better yet destroy them?" Adrian asked him, "It's cruel and unusual punishment to make someone work out on that."

Coach Shute stared at him incredulously, then shook his head and walked away. Adrian nonetheless shuffled towards the bench and tried to ignore all the dangers around him.

"So you're Monk?" the girl from the uneven bars had approached from the other side of the gym.

"Yes, yes I am," he told her, "How, how can I help you?"

"What did Wendy tell you?" her voice got lower and sharper.

"Why?"

"If I were you, I'd drop the whole thing right now," the girl told him firmly, "Wendy's just using you for whatever purpose she has in mind."

"How...why..."

"Because she's a glory hound," the girl almost snarled, "She's been hogging up the spotlight, taking credit for everything we regular gymnasts who actually worked to get here, and she has no qualms saying terrible things behind our backs. Whatever this whole fake attack thing is, it's just some ploy to get at us."

"But, but I saw the aftermath of the attack, Miss...uh, you are...?"

"I'm Wendy's worst nightmare," she said roughly, "And if she comes around here again after pulling this, she's toast. Listen to me on this, Monk; Wendy's lying to you. And in time you'll see her for what she really is, just like we all have. Trust me."

"Shannon, want to see your vaulting," Coach Shute called from across the gym. Adrian frowned as the girl ran off and tried to wonder what to make of what he'd been told. And what to do if by some chance it was in fact true.


	5. Mr Monk Gets Duped

"Oh don't mind Shannon, Mr. Monk," Julie told him, somersaulting across the balance beam, "She's been jealous of Wendy ever since she made the team. She used to be their big star, so any chance to slander her would be right up her alley."

"Now, now that is your own deduction, or did Wendy tell you that herself?" Adrian had to ask, frantically chasing her along the length of the beam with his arms outstretched in case she fell.

"Yes, it's what I deduced from everything I've seen and heard," she said somewhat defensively, balancing on her right arm much to Adrian's great discomfort, "I thought you could trust what I tell you by now. And there's no need to do that; I'm not going to fall."

Adrian was far from sure of this, but nonetheless he decided it would be better to respect her wishes on the matter and stepped back away from the beam. Still, his mind was racing over what Shannon had told him earlier. While he did trust Julie's word wholeheartedly, something deep inside him was now wondering exactly how trustworthy Wendy's word was. Now that he thought of it, it was a little unusual that her initial request once Stottlemeyer had arrived on the scene was to insist she be allowed to tape her cereal commercial. And she had seemed much, much calmer following the attack than one ordinarily would in the same predicament--as he recalled, she acted rather calm after her initial burst of grief following the assault and seemed far more able to walk about without problems afterwards, not exactly what one would expect following a bat attack.

"_Oh, you're just imagining things_," he shook his head firmly, "_Julie's right; you've been approached by a jealous young woman. Then again, maybe she's got more up her sleeve than she'd be willing to let on." _

And he knew who to talk to about that. Reluctantly leaving Julie to her own devices, he walked over to Coach Shute, now watching a short-haired blond girl try vaulting the horse. The moment she touched the mat and rumpled it up beyond belief, though, the detective couldn't stop himself from lunging forward and pressing the creases out of it. "Are you schizo or something?" the girl asked him with raised eyebrows.

"Just, just making it sanitary for whoever tries this next," Adrian told her, waving wildly at Natalie on the bleachers for another wipe.

"I thought I asked you to take a seat, Mr. Monk?" Coach Shute asked him wearily, waving the girl off to the parallel bars.

"Sorry, sorry, but maybe you can help me," Adrian zippered the coach's jacket all the way up before he took the wipe from Natalie as she came behind him, "Shannon, I'm wondering, she and Wendy, have they...?"

Coach Shute let out a low laugh, but not one of humor. "Somehow, Monk, I had a feeling you'd be asking me about that," he remarked, "I'll be honest, sometimes I really feel like letting the both of them go; they don't like each other at all, and I'm worried that'll poison the rest of the team. Why, do you think what's happened to Wendy might have something to do with this feud?"

"Well first, when exactly did it start?" Natalie asked, puzzled intrigued lining her brow; clearly Wendy having a feud with anyone was news to her.

"About a year ago when Wendy first burst to our attention," the coach laid it out for her and her employer, ignoring Adrian's attempt to wipe down both the horse and the springboard, "Shannon's been captain for about a year and a half, and I can tell very clearly she doesn't want to share the spotlight with anyone else. I don't want to take sides in something like this, particularly since Wendy hasn't treated Shannon as well in return, even though I beg for my players to treat others with the utmost..."

The sound of the door to the pavilion hall opening made him turn. Several other international teams wearing every color of the rainbow were milling about. Coach Shute nodded and blew his whistle. "OK ladies, that's..." he stopped and abruptly gasped for air as Adrian seized the whistle and almost suffocated him trying to pull it off and clean it. Natalie quickly pulled it out of his hand and fixed a withering glare at him. The detective shrugged and took several steps away from the coach. "As I was saying, ladies, that's practice for tonight," Shute continued once he'd gotten his breath back, "Lights out by ten; we're back here tomorrow morning."

Slowly the American gymnasts shifted away as the international teams from countries such as Albania, China, Sweden, Belarus, and even Pakistan filed over to the equipment, although the Russians, featuring some of the largest and most muscular female gymnasts Adrian had ever seen apparently got first dibs. "They, they seem rather good," he couldn't help commenting as one executed an admittedly sensational somersault on the parallel bars.

"Yep, from what I've seen in film, they look like the team to beat this year," Coach Shute nodded, "We just barely beat them out for the bronze last time around, and they've been training like crazy to medal this time."

"I remember watching that one, Mr. Shute," Julie came up behind him, winded from her own "workout" but still looking in full spirits, "They threw the chairs at the officials when they lost."

"Oh yeah, they were quite lucky they didn't get the DQ then and there," Coach Shute reminisced, "Oh, and I must say, not bad on the bar there yourself," he commended her, "If you'd made a serious effort to enter, maybe I would have given you a look during the national preliminaries."

"Well, if I had the money, Coach, maybe I could have paid her entrance fees," Adrian couldn't help noticing a sour note in Natalie's voice as she said this, as well as the fact she was looking right at him. He couldn't help rolling his eyes: she was always underpaid in her mind and would use any situation to complain about it despite the fact every piece of evidence he saw shot down her claim completely. "Anyway, getting back to the topic at hand," he said quickly to get off the subject, "Mr. Coach, you'd...would you think it possible that Shannon or someone connected to her might want to try and harm Wendy to get her out of the way?"

"I can't believe anyone I'd know as long as I have Shannon would actually try something like that," Coach Shute looked stricken at the very prospect, "Then again, Shannon has been acting kind of strange and secretive lately, so I can't help wondering if something's going on. She is a hard-driven young woman, I'll admit that, but I don't think she'd pull a Tonya Harding. Then again, some of the people in her family, they strike me as...are you all right there?"

For Natalie was now stone still, staring almost misty-eyed at the current team to take the mat. Adrian recognized the flag patterns on their uniforms immediately: it was the Kosovo delegation, trying out for their very first Olympic games. Earlier in the year, when they'd seen on the news that Kosovo had voted successfully for independence, she'd broken down completely on the spot in the living room, a bit too overwhelmed with the realization that her husband's efforts had been worth something so momentous in the end, Adrian figured. Or perhaps it was because she could no longer take any mention of Kosovo well until whatever the truth of Mitch's fate really was came out--he didn't know and had decided it would be better off not to ask. Without even realizing it, he'd put his hand briefly on her hand and tapped it gently, only to snap to his senses and pull it immediately away once she looked back up. "Oh, uh, just, um..." he stumbled for something that wouldn't sound dumb.

"Need a tissue?" Coach Shute came to his rescue and held one in front of Natalie's face.

"No, um, thank you," she said quickly, "Just...just...some memories of..."

"Hold on," Adrian had noticed the rather small Kosovoan gymnast trying the vault, "That one there, she looks a little too young if you ask..."

"I've heard of her," Julie told him, "That's Zlata Tadic. NBC ran a piece on her before the games started; her family was all killed by Serbian militias during the worst of the fighting; she basically sold the farm to get this far."

"Which is easily the most sappy and convoluted tale I've ever heard in my life," Shannon grumbled as she walked by them, duffle bag in hand.

"I wasn't talking to you," Julie hissed at her.

"Well," Adrian admitted, "It does sound like some kind of story that a hack writer might come up with to make her sympathetic," he paused to mull this over, not noticing the Teegers' disapproving look at him for the statement. "Well, anyway, thank you, Mr. Coach, we'll, we'll keep you informed of what we find out next."

"Please do," Coach Shute shook his hand again, "But please, just do me one favor; try not to come around here for practice anymore," he was practically pleading this point.

"I, I don't think you'll be seeing from us again," Adrian reassured him, disposing his latest used wipe into the garbage can outside the main floor. "Call the captain once we're out of here," he instructed Natalie as they walked toward the pavilion's exit, "Tell him to do a background check on Shannon's family. If one of them had that seat at the volleyball game," he couldn't help noticing Shannon hanging by the locker room door, staring at him intently, "We just might have this locked up."

* * *

A half hour later, Adrian found himself in downtown San Francisco at the newly constructed "Raindrop" venue for the platform diving competition. He fiddled with his judges' tie for the umpteenth time, unable to get the thing as straight as he would have liked, as a diver from Canada started climbing the ladder to the top of the platform. "So, um," he tried to break the ice with his fellow judges, "Any, any of you do this before?"

"Once in a competition in Slovenia three years ago when my brother-in-law came down with severe indigestion," Krajic admitted, "I'm an equestrian judge by nature, though, so at least I'll be happier tomorrow when we do that up in the north of the city.

Adrian tried to suppress a shudder. Horses tended to do things he was not comfortable with. He glanced to the top of the platform as the Canadian diver took her position at the edge and sprung backwards in a double somersault. She landed with such a hard splash that the judges were all inundated. That was all Adrian needed to determine his final score. He hunched over his electronic judging pad and typed in a score of 0.0, then rifled through his briefcases stacked behind the table for paper towels. "Oh come on, Charles, it wasn't that bad," Lagos chided him, noticing.

"You, you must have a pretty high threshold for these things," Adrian lauded him, reaching up to hit the button to display his score. The Canadian diver did not take his scoring all that well; with a carnal roar she charged up to him and grabbed him by the collar. "ZERO!!" she bellowed in his face, "WHAT THE HELL ZERO!!"

"That splash, it was way too big, completely unacceptable," Adrian meekly explained, "In fact, I think getting we judges wet like this warrants an automatic disqualification, am, am I right?"

He looked to his fellow judges, who slowly shook their heads. "Well, uh, then, I, I guess you get a ten, even," he said weakly, pressing the buttons to change his score. The Canadian nodded and let him go. "Nice, nice friendly Canadians, always so polite," Adrian told his fellow judges, swiping at his shirt to straighten out any creases that had been left behind. He glanced back up the diving platform as the next contender, a Chilean, approached the edge of the platform. This diver's form was fine, and she made far less of a splash when she landed, but Adrian counted three spins in the air before she splashed down; odd numbers of maneuvers warranted a decrease in points as far as he was concerned, so he typed in 6.0 as his final score. He couldn't help noticing the score his fellow judges were typing in next to him. "Why, why are you giving her that?" he asked Parkinson, awarding the Chilean a score of 7.3.

"I think it only fair given the form and style, Charles," Parkinson said wearily, "Why is that important?"

"I'm, I'm just pointing out it's an odd number, and," Adrian rifled through his pocket, "I'd be willing to pay you ten dollars if you round it down to 7.0 or up to 8.0. Same for you and you," he pointed to Cadorna and Lagos's respective scores of 8.1 and 7.7, "Don't, don't worry, I've got enough money."

The other judges stared at him increduously. "This, this is rather important," the detective pressed his point. Sighing, Parkinson extended his hand for the money and typed in 7.0 as his score. "But you'd better have a good reason for this, Charles, or this is going right back to you," he said firmly.

"You'll thank me later," Adrian said as they all revealed their scores. The Chilean didn't notice the evenness of everyone's scores, but did leap in delight; her score was good enough for second at the moment. Adrian glanced backwards while the next diver (from Australia) climbed to the top and noticed Disher talking with a rather excitable Natalie in the front row. The lieutenant was holding what appeared to be a tape in his hands. "Time, time," the detective raised his arms just as the Australian was about to jump. She swayed and toppled backwards into the pool with no form at all, landing with a spectacular splash. The other judges groaned. "Another bathroom break?" Parkinson asked, rolling his eyes.

"It'll, it'll be faster this time," Adrian reassured him, "And, and she can do it over again when I get back."

He rose up and bustled towards the exit before any of them could protest further. Natalie and Disher had apparently anticipated this and were waiting for him. "You were right again, Mr. Monk," the former told him, "Randy ran a check on seating earlier in the day at the volleyball stadium. Shannon's father had that seat, and he was dressed the same as Wendy's assailant."

"He didn't confess, but we've got the tape of the interrogation here for you," Disher held it up, "I think it's pretty airtight, he's got motive and opportunity, so take a look at it when you get a chance."

Adrian could hear the crowd getting very restless back in the arena. "Right, uh, hold, hold on to it for me," he told the lieutenant, "I really can't afford to go the bathroom anymore tonight."

* * *

"I'm telling you, officer, you're making one hell of a big mistake!" Shannon's father was yelling at Stottlemeyer on the interrogation tape. Adrian caught a cursory glance at it on the large portable TV he'd pushed out in front of the Raindrop's pool. The crowds had long gone home for the night, but Adrian was still wide awake and on a mission to make the Raindrop as clean as possible for the next night when the 200 and 400 meter relays would take place in the pool. He hit the pause button so he could push his third disposable mop of the evening along the length of the pool, trying to clean up all the puddles of water lying about. It had taken him a good two hours, but he'd finally managed to pick up every single piece of garbage that the fans had left behind; a pile of garbage bags near five feet tall by the locker rooms bore proof of that. The right side of the pool now being completely dry, the detective unscrewed the now useless mop brush end and dumped it into an open garbage bag by the judges' table. He returned to the TV--by which he'd left the next mop brush--and hit play again while he attached it. "Well if we're making a mistake, Mark," Stottlemeyer calmly and confidently told Shannon's father, "would you mind explaining why you fit the exact same height as the guy who attacked Wendy Whitehurst today?"

"I never saw Wendy at the volleyball game!" their suspect bellowed, thumping both hands down on the table, "I was in the bathroom, yes, but up in the upper deck, not on the level she was attacked on! Ask any of the people around there; they would vouch for me!"

"Mr. Walker, you do understand the gravity of what you're accused of, don't you?" Disher informed the man as Adrian started assembling his pool vacuum to take clean out the bottom of the pool, even though this would take about an hour and a half at the at the least, "Assault and battery carries a maximum penalty of fifty years to life in this state, and the judge isn't going to take endangering a minor well. And when you're in there, you never know, you might get cornered by six big hairy guys who'd like..."

"Lieutenant," Stottlemeyer raised an irritated eyebrow at his associate as Adrian dipped the vacuum into the pool. "Look, Mark," he turned back to the suspect, "There's so much stacked against you here, you might as well just confess: your daughter got jealous Wendy stole attention from her, she wanted to get it back, she asked you to..."

"Damn you, officer, have you even listened to a word I've said!!" Mr. Walker barked at him, "It's Wendy you need to be looking at; she's trying to get at Shannon, not the way you say it! I've seen sides of her you haven't; did she bother telling you she got absolutely drunk and almost killed my daughter after their first practice as teammates!? Shannon begged her to stop, but she kept on driving and almost plowed into a semi head-on; Shannon was lucky to only have a bruise on her arm from hitting the door, and if I...!!"

"Well Mark, certainly we'll look into that in time, but the fact is, we're here for Wendy being attacked with a bat, and even if what you're telling us is true, that would give you more reason..." Stottlemeyer continued talking, but Adrian no longer heard any of it, for his vacuum had surprisingly hit something on the bottom of the pool. He looked down and jumped in shock to notice a large blue figure that had blended perfectly with the bottom of the pool swiftly stroking towards the wall and climbing up. Adrian obligingly leaped back as Travers, covered head to toe in blue camouflage, splashed to the surface. "Monk, watch where you're going!" the security chief demanded, pulling his hood off, "You might just have blown my cover!"

"You, you mean you were down there all night and no one noticed?" Adrian was shocked no one had noticed.

"Life in Vietnam taught me the importance of stealth and camouflage, Monk," Travers stated proudly as the detective hastily mopped up the floor under him, "I can be anywhere and no one could notice."

"So, did, did you find out anything of note down there that could help with this case?" Adrian paused the interrogation tape again.

"If the Commies were in here, they're being discreet about it," Travers took a small waterproof video recorder from his beltline and started playing back the footage he'd shot underwater, "Maybe if we take a closer look we can get a better idea of what..."

Just then there came the sound of someone pushing against the front door of the Raindrop. Adrian jerked upwards and held up his hand. Making a "ssshhh" gesture at Travers he, hustled up the stairs, waving the security chief to follow him. Peering around the corner, he noticed a teenage boy walking anxiously back and forth out front. A preliminary glance also told Adrian he was five foot eight--the exact height of Wendy's attacker. "See him?" he whispered to Travers, "He might be a suspect. I think..."

He trailed off as he noticed Travers was now changing into a bush disguise. "Well then, Monk, let's get a little closer and see what we can find," he told the detective, handing him some branches. After checking to see the boy starting to walk away, the security chief crept the the emergency exit, turned off the alarm, and slipped outside into the real bushes. Adrian sighed, not willing to walk around where animals had trod or done worse, but he nonetheless bent over and trudged into position behind Travers within good sight of the boy, who was walking back and forth in tight circles, glancing at his wrist. They had apparently timed their move just right, as the lights of a taxi came blazing into the Raindrop's parking lot. The boy straightened up and began tapping his foot impatiently as it pulled up by the curb. Out of the cab stepped none other than Wendy, walking briskly and with only the slightest hint of injury. "Well it's about time, Wendy," the boy said impatiently, "I've been waiting out here close to an hour for..."

"They needed multiple takes on the commercial, Greg," Wendy said calmly, waving off the cab, which pulled up several hundred feet to the main entrance, "I don't like it either, but I have to get paid."

"What do you mean you HAVE...?"

"Greg, come on, it's been a long day, and I'm not in the mood," Wendy sounded impatient herself, "And another thing, you were way too hard with that bat today; it hurt more than I thought."

"Wendy, I..."

"Don't bother, it's all right," she put a hand to his lips as he started to protest, "You did good anyway. I just heard they brought in Mr. Walker. It's only a matter of time now. It'll be..."

"Wendy, this was wrong!" Greg snapped out loud, "I'm sorry I ever agreed to help you with this!"

"Well it's too late now, Greg, you're in this as much as I am," she told him coolly, "Don't worry, there's no way the cops can trace anything to you. Monk's not nearly as bright as he is on TV."

It occurred to Adrian that this conversation needed to be recorded. "Quick, your TV thingee, record this," he hissed to Travers, who nodded and turned on his device. Unfortunately, Adrian had spoken a bit too loudly, as both teenagers turned. "What was that?" Greg asked nervously.

"It's just the wind, now would you just relax," Wendy told him.

"How can I relax!?" he barked at her, "Monk may not know you conspired to get Shannon out of the Olympics now, but he'll find out in the end; the guy's thrown people in prison for far more impossible crimes than this, he'll...!"

To his and Adrian's completely surprise, Wendy grabbed him by the collar. "I said relax!!" she shouted at him, "Monk trusts me completely, you're in no danger, so just stop your whining!" Taking several deep breaths, she added more calmly, "Look, I've told you, this is necessary. Shannon's going to spill about that accident several months ago; I'll lose every single endorsement I've got if that information goes public. So I just need her out of the way until the Olympics are over; no one will believe her if she's sent home in disgrace. Now there's no danger for you, Greg; you don't have anything else to do, they won't find you at all."

"But an innocent man is in jail, Wendy! Doesn't that mean anything to you!?" Greg was getting mad himself, "Look, you never told me any of this would happen; I should just tell...!"

She seized his collar again. "You're not listening to me, Greg!" she yelled, "I've worked for years on end to get to this point, and I will not let Shannon wash it all away! Now don't worry about her father; they'll probably let him go for lack of evidence anyway, but Shannon will know to keep quiet then. Now if you love me, you'll just go with the flow and keep quiet until it's over. So do you love me!?"

She gave him a piercing glare. Greg glowered and lowered his head. "I suppose," he grumbled.

"Good," Wendy gave him a kiss, "Come on back to the dorm with me, I've got the drinks," she gestured for the cab.

"I'm not thirsty, Wendy," he turned and started walking towards his car near the south entrance, "I don't know when I'll be thristy again."

"Your call, but you're missing a good time," Wendy shouted after him. With an indifferent shrug, she walked up the sidewalk to the taxi and climbed in. Greg stopped walking and stared after the taxi for a moment as it pulled away, then kicked the nearest garbage can in frustration, sending trash flying everywhere. Adrian shuddered in distaste. He waited until Greg had climbed into his own car and driven off into the night before pulling out his collapsible claw and rushing over to pick up the garbage. It was tough to come to terms with everything he'd just heard, but it appeared Shannon was right all along; Wendy HAD been using him for her own purposes.


	6. Going Too Far?

"I'll be damned," Stottlemeyer said, shocked, as he took in the footage Travers had shot--since converted to VHS-- inside his office the next morning. "I'll be damned," he repeated again once it was over, "She played all of us. I can't believe it."

"Just like the Commies to corrupt America's youth into doing their bidding for them," Travers commented, rewinding the tape, "I see in the reports they were over in Romania a couple of months ago; they probably stormed her hotel room and brainwashed her for a couple of hours to..."

"Never mind, Ernie, just call your buds at the Federal Bunch of Idiots and tell them their services won't be needed," the captain interrupted him.

"Well, maybe we ought to call the hotel in Romania and check..." Disher started to propose.

"No, Lieutenant, she was not brainwashed, even though he may have been at some point," Stottlemeyer jerked a finger at Travers on the phone in the squad room. "Just go set up Mark Walker's release."

"Right," Disher saunted out, walking past Natalie as she came in for the morning. "So what's going on it here that you found?" she inquired.

"We solved the case, Natalie," Adrian told her.

"Well that's great."

"No, not really," the detective shook his head, "Better see for yourself, Natalie, but you're probably not going to believe it."

He rewound the tape to the beginning and hit play. If Natalie's jaw could have literally hit the floor at the sight of Wendy bragging that she'd used Adrian's services to get at Shannon, it would have. "I don't believe it," she murmured softly once it was finished, "But Wendy...how can it...?"

"I guess fame just went to her head," Stottlemeyer rose and put on his tuxedo, "Anyway, we know what we've got to do now."

* * *

"But there's got to be some kind of mistake!" Julie was less willing to accept the circumstances as they all entered Maples Pavilion again, "It's just not possible! That's not Wendy!"

"I don't want to believe it either, but I'm afraid that's what it looks like," her mother shook her head sadly, "You saw the tape yourself before we came here."

"But that couldn't have been...Mr. Monk must have found the wrong...!"

"I'm sorry, Julie," Adrian shook his head. It was still a hard pill for him to swallow too. "Mr. Coach," he waved down Coach Shute, approaching from up the hall. "So Monk, you said you figured out what's going on?" he asked the detective when he got closer.

"I'll need a TV; you and the whole team need to see this," Adrian gestured to Disher, holding the tape.

"I think there's one in the back room," Coach Shute gestured for Disher to follow him. The others continued to the gymnasium, where loud shouting could be heard. The detective had an idea what it was all about, and sure enough a glance inside confirmed it; Wendy and the girl named Katie were by the horse, in a terse shouting match. "...told you, I'm still working out here!" Katie was bellowing.

"And why do you need it, Katie!? The cameras are all going to be on me anyway!!" Wendy snarled back venomously, "I'm the best player on this team; no one cares for what you do out there!"

"I've had it with keeping quiet about everything you do to us, Wendy!!" Katie snarled, "Coach is going to hear about it this time!!"

Every other girl on the team, Shannon notably included, walked behind Katie in a gesture of solidarity. Wendy, however, was not humbled. "You think he's going to believe you over me about anything?" she told them cockily, "He'd believe anything I'd tell them! Monk'll back me up too; he'd believe anything I'd tell him!"

Adrian felt a dark scowl ripple briefly across his lips, accompanied behind him by the soft gasp of Julie finally seeing her friend for what she'd become. The detective couldn't bear to look down at her expression. Instead, he knew it was time to intervene and pushed the door open. "Hello, everyone," he waved softly as he walked in, "We, we all met the other day, so no, no need for introductions. I, I want you ladies to know that after much intense detective work, I have solved the case about what's been plaguing Wendy here."

"My father didn't do anything!" Shannon screamed right at him. "Let him out of jail this instant!" she demanded to Stottlemeyer.

"It's perfectly all right, Miss Walker," Stottlemeyer raised his hands, "We did in fact release your father a half hour ago, and he is back at the hotel in Oakland."

"Wait a minute, but you said yesterday the evidence against him was overwhelming?" Wendy frowned, concerned but apparently not onto the fact the captain and his team knew her game yet.

"Well, as it turned out, this morning some new evidence came to our attention," Stottlemeyer told her, "In a moment we're going to show..."

A loud thumping sound cut him off. Disher had found the TV player, but was trying to push it in sideways through the door, which wasn't big enough to accommodate this procedure. The captain sighed and walked over. "THIS way may be a bit more helpful," he told his adjutant, turning it sideways so it could fit.

"Yeah, it is," Disher beamed, pushing it in, "Good thinking there, sir."

"Just doing my job, Randy," the captain said wearily. Coach Shute, following Disher in, asided to him, "We had the exact same problem getting it out of the room in the first place."

"Hang on, what kind of new evidence?" Wendy demanded as Disher wheeled the TV player to a stop right in front of the gymnasts.

"The kind that seals a case for good," Adrian gave her a sharp look. There came a rushing of high-heeled footsteps coming into the gym. "Sorry I'm late," Mrs. Whitehurst huffed, "What was so important?"

"The answer to all your questions about what's been going on, Mrs. Whitehurst. Randy?" Adrian gestured to Disher, who inserted the tape into the player--backwards, which he didn't seem to realize, prompting him to try and jam it hard into the slot. Rolling his eyes, Stottlemeyer took it off him and stuck it in properly. When he hit play, however, only a black screen played. "So what's this?" Coach Shute asked, eyebrows raised.

"Oh," Disher snapped his fingers, "Forgot to rewind." He did just that, ignoring Stottlemeyer's aggravated groan, and hit Play at the beginning of the tape. Wendy's confession played out for all to hear. When it was finished, the room became deathly silent as numerous pairs of eyes turned in Wendy's direction. Wendy turned deathly pale at being unmasked. "This...this...this...this isn't what it looks like, honest!!" she pleaded.

"I should have guessed!" Shannon rounded on her murderously, "So this is your way of trying to cover up your drinking and driving spree to the press, by discrediting the one person who's voice would have sunk you--my father's!"

"No, no, no, of course not, I, I, I, I don't even know what you're talking about!!"

"Well we do," Stottlemeyer stepped forward, several papers in hand, "We contacted county officials back in Texas, Miss Whitehurst; they got you for reckless endangerment with a blood alcohol level of .21. And by the way, your neighbors also filed a formal missing pet report for their dog, and wouldn't you just know it, it matches the one we found in your dorm perfectly. What an incredible coincidence, I'd say."

"Wendy Angela, how could you!?" her mother shouted after a long, stark silence, "After everything I've raised you be over the years...!"

"Mom, but...but...but...but...!!" Wendy seemed too shocked for coherent sentences. "Shannon was going to go public with the fact she was in the car with you when you were drunk, weren't you?" Adrian glanced at Shannon, who nodded vigorously, "You couldn't afford any sort of scandal to lose your valuable sponsorship deals, so you decided to neutralize her by putting something over her head--a major scandal of her own that would make it look like she was out to get you."

"No, no, no, Monk, it's not true! It's not true!!" Wendy desperately cried.

"It's absolutely true," came Greg's voice. He came storming into the gym, "She put me up to it to attack her. She had me follow Mr. Walker, see what he was wearing that day, to go buy a set for myself, then attack her so he'd get the blame." He came to a stop by Stottlemeyer. "If I tell you everything she told me to do, Officer, do I go free, no questions asked?" he inquired.

"I'm sure we can work out an arrangement like that," Stottlemeyer nodded.

"I'll take it," Greg told him. He stormed up to Wendy. "And by the way, it's over," he told her curtly, "I'm tired of you appreciating me only for what I can do for you. That's not the type of relationship I want."

Wendy sputtered weakly. "Well, I think our work here is done then," the captain said as their new witness returned to his side, "I guess the only question is whether Miss Walker's going to press any charges. Are you?"

"I'll see what my father says when I see him," Shannon said. "Thank you, Monk," she commended the detective.

"I try and do what's right," Adrian couldn't help shooting a cold glance at Wendy, "Even if it's not what I'm hired to do."

"Monk, I...you've got to...!!" Wendy stammered desperately.

"In the meantime, young lady," Coach Shute rounded on his star athlete, anger seething in his every word, "Even if Shannon doesn't press charges, you're still paying my penalty. I want you on the first plane home to Texas you can book, because you are out of here!"

"NOOOOOO!!" her scream echoed through the pavilion, "Please Coach, anything but that! Please, I beg you...!!"

"I don't train my teams to pull stunts like this!" he snarled at her, "And I've had it with your attitudes toward everyone else on this team too--don't think I haven't been noticing what's been going on!" he glanced at the other gymnasts, who nodded, quite pleased that their grievances with were being addressed. "Come on ladies, let's get back to practice; we've got real work to do."

"Come on you guys, you know I've been there for you!" Wendy pleaded at the other gymnasts, all walking away from her with their backs turned, "Come on, somebody say something for me; you know I'm not the bad guy here! Shannon started the whole thing, you know that; she threw the first punch in all this!"

None of them said a word. With a sour parting look at her, Adrian and the police turned and left the gym, followed by her mother, looking quite grim. Looking frantic, Wendy turned to the one possible net she had left. "Julie, I...I...I...I...!!"

"You're not the Wendy I knew," she told her coldly, and turned and stormed away after Adrian and her mother. "Well, don't just stand there!" Coach Shute barked at Wendy, "Get back to the dorm and get packing! You've got no further business hanging around my team"

"You can't throw me off, you can't!!" Adrian heard Wendy screaming at him as he left the gym, but he did not turn back even as the desperate cries continued, "I sacrificed everything to get this far, Coach; you can't just take it away from me!! You can't just destroy my life!! YOU CAN'T!!"

* * *

"Yes, I don't think I'll be judging any more events, Mr. Chairman," Adrian said into a pay phone against the outside wall of Stanford's cafeteria, "Yes, everything's been taken care of, I'm sorry to say. Enjoy the rest of the games, and please, whatever you do, get the athletes to clean up everything they leave behind. Well, I think it only fair if you want San Francisco to be able to make another bid a hundred years from now. Just at least consider it, please."

He scrubbed down the receiver with a wipe before hanging up. "Well, our work with the Olympics is over with now," he told the Teegers, "Really, being a judge didn't really have that much bearing on the case in the end, so it wasn't the best of ideas after all," he raised his eyebrows at Natalie.

"But you did enjoy it, didn't you?" Natalie asked him.

"Not in the least," he shook his head firmly.

"You did," she smiling knowingly. Adrian knew it would be pointless to press the point any further, as he could never win that kind of battle. "Maybe, before she leaves town, you could go to Wendy's room and have a lecture with her about why she was wrong and all, since she's not willing to accept it yet," he told her as they started walking towards the "Teegermobile."

"Why me?" she frowned.

"Well, since you have experience of letting fame get to your head and all, you'd be perfect to..."

"Now hold on a minute, Mr. Monk," Natalie came to a stop and put her hands on her hips, "You were the one who let the whole deal with the lottery get to your head; you were the one hassling me about the whole deal."

"But the crew at the station told me very clearly how badly you treated them during the height of the whole debacle," Adrian countered; this battle he knew he could win, "And you chewed me out publicly in front of dozens of people, refused to answer my phone calls when I tried to apologize about what I'd said that time, skipped out on me so you..."

"Well if you hadn't called me...what you did, maybe I wouldn't have chewed you out!" Natalie's voice was starting to rise, "And if you think..."

"Stop it, all right, both of you just stop it!" Julie unexpectedly shouted, prompting both of them to indeed stop in surprise, "I thought we agreed we'd just put the whole thing about the lottery behind us!" the girl snapped, "Frankly, I didn't like what either of you turned into then, and if you won't, won't...you won't..."

She broke down in tears. "What's the matter?" Natalie put a sympathetic hand around her, "If we got you scared that..."

"It's not that; I'm sorry I blew up," Julie admitted, "I just...why'd she have to turn into that? Why'd she have to lie to me, when I stuck with her all that time!? Didn't she think I was worth...!?"

She couldn't finish. "I understand," Natalie hugged her daughter close, "But don't you feel bad about it, because you're right, and she was wrong, and all it means is that you're too good for someone like her. And I was very proud you had the courage to tell her you felt that way back there; that means you've good a good moral backbone that..."

"Hold on," Adrian held up his hand. Sirens could be heard blaring across campus; even now he saw swarms of campus security guards rushing for their vehicles. A deep pit formed in Adrian's stomach; something told him something terrible had just happened that he wasn't going to like. "Wait here," he told the Teegers before break into a run after the nearest cruiser; something told him they wouldn't like whatever had happened.

His first impression only confirmed his fears, for the squad cars were parked around Maples Pavilion. Worse yet, the first sight to greet him as he skidded to a stop by the door was medical units wheeling out a corpse. Even covered by a sheet, Adrian knew it was Coach Shute; the height fit perfectly. "What happened!?" he breathlessly asked the medical examiner at the rear of the gurney.

His question was largely answered when two large security officials strode through the door, leading along Wendy, handcuffed and looking deathly pale. "She murdered her coach here," the medical examiner confirmed it for him, "She strangled him in the weight room."

Adrian nodded grimly. He looked at Wendy, not putting up any resistance as she was loaded into one of the cruisers, and took note of how absolutely petrified she appeared. A terrible wave of guilt swept over him. For he felt responsible to a degree for this situation coming to be.


	7. The OTHER Other Side of the Story

"Back up a minute here, Adrian," Dr. Neven Bell held up his hand inside his office, "I don't quite see how any of this would be your fault."

"It's just...I fell for her whole story hook, line and sinker," Adrian admitted, leaning forward in his chair, a dismal look on his face, "I can't help wondering, if I hadn't been taken in and found out what had happened, maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't have come to this, with her facing capital murder charges. They're going to try her as an adult; I talked to the DA's office, and he's going to press for life without parole given how much Shute suffered in his last minutes; only the fact she's under eighteen's sparing her the death penalty right now," he let out a frustrated sigh, "There's no way I CAN'T help but think I helped bring this on her."

"Well, it's understandable a person might think that," Dr. Bell nodded, "But Adrian, I'd like you to wash all those thoughts out of your head, because I can tell you that you have nothing to worry about; Wendy herself is entirely to blame for all this."

"But a life sentence at seventeen," Adrian swallowed hard, "If the jury votes for that...to think I sent a young woman to a life of hard time...I mean, if she were a big hairy thug or an arrogant blowhard like Dale Beiderbeck or Patrick Kloster, I wouldn't have any problems, but she's just seventeen, and...what I'm saying...maybe at the hearing I should beg for leniency for her on...what do you think?"

"You should do whatever you feel is right, Adrian," Dr. Bell advised him, "I can't really help you with the final decision. Every person has their own set of guidelines for what's..."

The buzzer on his desk rang at this moment. "Telephone for you, Dr. Bell," came his secretary's voice through the intercom.

"Be right out," Dr. Bell buzzed her back. "So, we'll continue once I take this, Adrian," he told the detective as he strode for the door, "And try to realize that you can't control everything everyone does--and that in many ways it's for the best that we can't."

Adrian nodded softly. Once his psychiatrist had left the office, his gaze inevitably turned towards the back wall, where Dr. Kroger's painting hung. The detective rose and trudged slowly towards the sad reminder of happy times that would never come again. "What am I supposed to do?" he asked out loud to the painting, "If, if you're there, give me a sign of some kind, what should I do?"

He paused as if he was expecting Dr. Kroger to somehow appear and give him the answer. Nothing happened at all, however. Adrian hung his head and returned to his seat. Apparently that outlet was indeed shut down forever now.

The office door swung open. "You won't believe this, Adrian," Dr. Bell told him, looking rather amazed himself, "That was Wendy Whitehurst's attorney on the phone. She's begging to have a word with you as soon as possible."

"Now why would she want to drag me through this further?" the detective sighed.

"She apparently insists she didn't kill her coach, and she's frantic that you help prove it," his psychiatrist reached for his coat behind his chair, "I'll tell you what: you're the last patient I had scheduled today, so if you wouldn't mind, I'll come along with you on this one; if you need any help--and if she'd need an extra person to talk to--I'll be right there--if that's OK with you."

"I, I guess it's just fine," Adrian nodded, following Dr. Bell out the door. He would certainly prefer a witness if Wendy was trying to use him again.

* * *

Traffic in San Francisco was heavier than usual, and so it was a good forty minutes later that the two of them arrived at the precinct. Stottlemeyer, upon hearing their tale, shook his head, but nonetheless pulled out the report he'd filed for Coach Shute's murder. "I think she's yanking your chain again, Monk; what we've got here's pretty airtight even by your standards," he told the detective, handing him the papers. He raised an eyebrow as Adrian tamped them down on the desk so they were all lined up properly before he started reading them. "But if you want to go through with an interview, I guess I can't really find any way of stopping you. Lieutenant," he called to Disher, hunched over his desk and watching an episode of the Eppes brothers' TV show on his portable television set, which Disher hastily shoved under the desk at the sound of his name, "Go get Wendy. Monk's thinks there might be something we didn't see."

Disher nodded and scurried off towards the holding cells. With a resigned sigh, Stottlemeyer lifted the set up from the floor and set it back on the desk. "They say TV's addictive, Monk; with him that's a no contest," he confided in his consultant, "Especially with this show. Too bad you weren't connected with us then," he told an inquisitive looking Dr. Bell, "Last Christmas we spent the holidays with these guys here," he pointed at the faux Charlie Eppes on the screen, "Not as interesting as some of the other people we've come across over the years, but you probably would have liked them. They use math equations I could never hope to learn to solve the crimes."

"Interesting indeed," Dr. Bell nodded, intrigued, "You'll have to keep me informed; I wouldn't mind coming along if I have the spare time. It seems like vacations are quite eventful for all of you."

"Not all of them, but since I've gone along with Monk, absolutely," the captain confirmed for him. "And speaking of which, Monk," he turned back to the detective, "How it coming with the show from that Fourth of July trip with Hanley or whatever his name was?"

"It was Hinkley, Captain," Adrian corrected him, "Benjy almost had the final outline done when I last talked to Sharona about two months ago. Tim Kight should have it ready for air in about six months; they just need a title."

"Yeah, that's another one you should have been there to see," Stottlemeyer confided in Dr. Bell, "This lunatic guy at our hotel thought he was a high flying superhero. Not exactly the kind of thing you'd expect to get a show out of, but I guess kids'll like it."

Adrian couldn't suppress a small smile. If only his boss could know for sure that Ralph Hinkley was in fact a real high-flying superhero--although not terribly good at the flying part. It was at that moment Disher returned. "She's all set," he told them, "Room C."

"The one with the odd number of chairs?" Adrian frowned, "I thought I asked that in these...?"

"Monk, all the other interrogations rooms are taken," the lieutenant said with a shake of his head, "And really, we've got a backlog today."

"Now Adrian, you can't expect to make too much progress if you freeze up at each and every odd number that presents itself," Dr. Bell goaded him. Adrian shrugged in concession and lead his psychiatrist into the interrogation room. Sure enough, Wendy was already seated there, wearing prison garb and with a towering, armed guard standing right behind her. The detective took immediate note that a mere seven hours in prison had already done a number on her, as she looked deathly pale and listless. "Monk, I know this looks bad!" was her opening plea as he sat down and twisted the phone cord around to get the kinks out of it, "But I didn't kill Coach, I swear!"

"We'll, we'll let the evidence decide," Adrian said calmly, "Allow me to introduce Dr. Neven Bell, he's the best psychiatrist in the San Francisco area..."

"I'm not a lunatic, you have to believe me!" Wendy all but screamed at him.

"I don't think he was insinuating that," Dr. Bell reassured her, "I came here on my own free accord to help decipher what the story with your circumstances are. Now if you could, please tell us everything that happened between the time you were exposed as having conspired to get rid of your teammate till the moment of your arrest."

Wendy swallowed hard. "After I left the gym," she began hesitantly, "I went into the bathroom and cried my eyes out. I realized then and there the gravity of what I'd done," she stared intently at Adrian, "To see Julie didn't like me anymore, that's, that's what made me realize how stupid I'd been; I never wanted to lose her. I also began to see what it looked like from Shannon's point of view; I did almost kill the two of us, I realize now, so I'd be upset if she'd done it to me. So I decided I'd go to Coach and at least try to beg his forgiveness. He wasn't in his office, but the janitor said he'd seen him heading towards the weight room. I went in there and found him dead. Before I could do anything, the police showed up, assumed I'd done it, and, well, here I am now. Tell me you believe me, Monk!?"

She fixed him with a desperate pleading glance. Adrian glanced down at the report. "Part of me wants to, Wendy," he said slowly, his eyes staying glued to the papers in the folder, "But I have to consider that you set me up to get at Shannon too."

"I know, I know, and I was wrong, Monk, I swear to God I'm sorry I used you like that!" the words rambled frantically off her tongue, "I've never been so scared in my life in here; maybe I deserve to be here, but I don't want to stay...what I'm saying is...!"

"We get the idea, Wendy," Dr. Bell dragged another chair over from Wendy's side of the table (Adrian wasn't too comfortable with this, as this wrecked the evenness of each side of the table). "Now tell me, what do you think drove you to make this grave error of yours?" he inquired as he plopped down, "Something in your childhood, perhaps?"

Wendy hung her head. "I had to win the gold, it was as simple as that," she conceded, "I'd lose my chance if Shannon or her father spoke up, so I felt I had no choice but to do it."

"So you'd say you have a winner's complex?"

"I need to win that gold," she told him emphatically, "Otherwise everything I've spent my whole life at will be worth nothing, nothing at all."

"I see," Dr. Bell nodded slowly, "Well, let me get straight to the point here, Wendy; you're putting too much value in areas you shouldn't. A gold medal may look great, but really it's only a piece of metal, one that'll decompose over time. So, your mother, how does she feel about this mindset of yours?"

"My mother's been pushing me hard to be the best all my life," she admitted, "I owe everything to her; she trained me hard from day one to get to the Olympics."

"Hmm," Adrian mumbled softly, looking over several pages of the report. "What, did you find something!?" she asked him breathlessly.

"No, just, just taking a few things here into account," Adrian remarked, "Well, you're sure you'll stand by your statement of what happened, Wendy? It says clearly here on the report your prints were the only ones found on the rope that was used to strangle your coach, and security cameras inside the building confirmed no one else but you entered that weight room before or after your coach. You had motive, opportunity..."

"I swear to you on my life, Monk, I'm not a killer!!" Wendy screamed at him. She slumped forward and broke down sobbing, "I'm just a tremendous failure at everything!"

"Now I wouldn't say that," Dr. Bell comforted her, "If you are by chance truly innocent, and are sincere in wishing to repent, I think you'll find your life still has meaning. Now about your relationship with your mother; would you say she dominates every decision you make?"

"No, of course not," Wendy shook her head quickly--too quickly, Adrian thought.

"Well, I'm merely pointing out that the typical behavior of a parent would naturally rub off on their child or children in the absence of any other strong force," the psychiatrist stated. It was at this point Stottlemeyer stuck his head in the door of the interrogation room. "Sorry Monk, your time's up," he told the detective.

"I'd, I'd like to examine the crime scene, Captain, just to make sure everything here on the report lines up," Adrian told him.

"Well, I suppose we could try, but believe me, Monk, I think we're just wasting our time pushing this any further," Stottlemeyer gave Wendy a clear ugly look. "I'm telling the truth this time, Captain Stottlemeyer, I swear to you!!" she had picked this up.

"Perhaps, but I should give you fair warning, Wendy, that if you are lying to me again here, I'll have no choice but to go along with whatever the D.A. suggests you get, even if it is life," Adrian warned her solemnly.

"I understand," she lowered her head, "If you see her, tell Julie how sorry I am. If I can't have anything else out of this, I just want her forgiveness."

"I can't guarantee anything," Adrian pointed out, "It's all up to how she feels from here on."

He rose and rearranged the chairs back to their original order once Dr. Bell had gotten up as well. "Thank you for your help," he told his psychiatrist, "I think we have a better understanding of everything now.

"So tell me," Dr. Bell asked once they'd left the interrogation room, "Do you think it was her?"

"If it isn't," Adrian glanced back at the guard escorting Wendy back to her cell, "I might have an idea who the killer could be."


	8. Searching for the Truth

"Good, you made it," Adrian greeted Natalie back at Maples Pavilion as he came in the door, "Julie holding up OK?"

"She's over at a friend's, trying to find something positive of the whole thing," his assistant told him, "You said over the phone you think there's a chance Wendy might be innocent?"

"Of murdering Shute, possibly," Adrian nodded, "They, they didn't touch anything at the scene, Captain?" he asked Stottlemeyer as he and Disher entered after him.

"I made the calls, everything in the weight room's been reset to what it was when they found the body," Stottlemeyer reassured him, "So let's walk this way and see if we've got this finished, or if there's more to the story than we know. Personally, I think she's just using us for a last chance at freedom, but..."

"Shhhh," Natalie hissed at him as they reached the weight room. Adrian stepped inside and walked in a slow circle around the room, making his familiar hand gestures all the while. He did stop briefly to examine one barbel lying on top of a bench presser, then dug out a pair of wipes and took some weights off it before nodding and continuing his circumference of the room. "Well?" Stottlemeyer asked when he returned to the doorway.

"Sorry, I'll have to do it again; the weights, they were at three hundred eighty-five pounds, it distracted me too much," Adrian admitted, "Had to set it at four hundred even before I could concentrate. I'll, I'll get back to you in a minute."

He ignored the three sets of eye rolls and returned to his business, making another slow trek around the weight room. Disher almost instinctively walked forward and began examining the weights as well. "May I ask what you're doing, Lieutenant?" Stottlemeyer had to ask.

"Just setting all the weights at four hundred so Monk can concentrate," Disher informed him, "Looks like I don't have to worry, though; whoever was in here last was lifting four hundred too," he pointed at the weight machine in front of him.

"Thank, thank you much," Adrian lauded him. He bent down by the vent, examined it thoroughly and nodded. "OK, Natalie," he said as he approached the door, "You can tell Julie she can rest easy; Wendy didn't kill her coach."

"Oh good," Natalie openly sighed in relief, "How do we know, so I can tell her for sure?"

"This wasn't a simple strangulation; far too much pressure was exerted on Shute's throat for a seventeen-year-old to cause," the detective told her, "Plus look at everything around the door; spotless, completely spotless. If she'd been waiting in here to jump him, Shute would have knocked everything over since he's about seventy pounds heavier than her, perhaps even overpowered her."

"So if he wasn't strangled by her, how did he die then, Monk?" Stottlemeyer inquired.

"Well, I do have a theory that sorts of fits," Disher raised his hand. Stottlemeyer sighed loudly. "Oh well, might as well get it over with since you were going to bring it up anyway," he muttered dejectedly, "Go ahead, Lieutenant, how was Norm Shute murdered?"

"It's possible we could be dealing with a Sith Lord here, Captain."

"Sith...Lord...," even having accepted that what his adjutant would say would be absurd, Stottlemeyer still weakly turned away, his hand over his face.

"Well, we have to consider every possible angle, right Monk?" Disher looked at Adrian for confirmation; the detective had his own hand over his face, trying to concentrate on the evidence at hand. "And you have to admit," the lieutenant continued, "This is the perfect Sith crime; he'd never have to go into the weight room, just stand outside the door and use the Force to choke the life out of Shute."

"And you REALLY think that's a theory anyone in this galaxy, or any galaxy for that matter, would find plausible, Randy?" Stottlemeyer asked, his voice seething with total and complete frustration, "Moreover, how come our Sith Lord, if by chance it WAS one, doesn't show up on camera outside!?"

"Well that would be easy; he used the Dark Side to cloud the camera so it couldn't see him, sir."

"That's the Shadow who does that, Lieutenant, if it makes any difference at all!"

"No it's not," Disher said defensively, "Actually, the Sith wouldn't have to have even been standing right here outside; after all, Vader got Ozzel from halfway across the Executor, and if...Captain?"

Completely stiff to keep himself from yelling or otherwise making a scene, Stottlemeyer dug out his stress yo-yo and bounced it around so violently that it broke off and shattered when it hit the wall. This venting method now spent, he took gigantically deep breaths for close to two minutes before his face became much calmer. "OK, now that we've got thatout of the way, what do you think happened if Wendy didn't strangle him, Monk?" he asked the detective.

The killer was in the air ducts, Captain," Adrian gestured towards the vent, "Something was yanked in through here; look at the dents in the grating," he pointed at three bars on the grate dented noticeably inwards. "And look behind here," he marched over behind the front door and gestured with his foot at a small object with rollers--so small that it wasn't that surprising the police had initially missed it--then pointed up at the ceiling, which had a slightly discolored spot in the plaster. "Norm Shute suffocated, but he was hanged, not strangled by hand. The killer set this up and ran the rope through it, so we're looking for whoever knew his exact height."

"I think he's right again," Disher picked up the rollers and examined them closely, "These look like rope fibers here, Captain."

"All right, but how do you explain Wendy's prints on the rope, Monk?" Stottlemeyer had to point out, "And if he was hanged outright like you say, where's the rest of the rope?"

"Give, give me the piece you found," Adrian requested it. Disher picked up the bag holding the rope and held it up for his benefit. "I see," the detective nodded, "Shute was too heavy; the rope broke under his weight just as he died. Look, it clearly broke off at the ends here," he pointed out the fray marks indicating the breaks, "The killer took the rest back through the air ducts with them, but this piece probably got trapped under his body or something like that. Wendy might have picked it up by accident when she found his body."

"Guess I can buy that," Stottlemeyer nodded slowly, "OK, so we're looking for someone who'd fit inside that duct with a busted noose. And a motive to kill him. I don't suppose you know that too, Monk?"

"I, I have a theory, but I'll really need more proof to make an accusation," Adrian admitted.

"Well we'll go look for that proof; I'm calling the I.O.C. back; you're going back undercover, my friend," the captain pulled out his cell phone.

"Actually, Captain, suppose this person strikes again, we might need another person undercover just in case," Disher proposed, "And I'd like to volunteer."

Stottlemeyer glanced slowly back and forth between the lieutenant and the others. "Well," he sighed slowly, "I guess until Monk gets more of a lead, we might have to. Come with me, and we'll see what Mr. What's His Name the chairman has to say about a second undercover guy."

The two of them walked out of the weight room. Adrian adjusted the wiped back over his wrists and started arranging the weights on the racks according to size. "I, I hope he does know what he's doing," he confided in Natalie, "I might argue that I stand out, but he'd..."

"Shhhh," Natalie held up her hand. Indeed, Adrian could now hear the rocking of heels just outside the weight room door. Natalie walked over and opened it all the way to reveal none other than Zlata Tadic the Kosovoan Olympian standing outside, looking quite nervous. "Well hello," the former bartender greeted her, a little surprised, "Can we help you with something?"

"Mr. Adrian Monk," Zlata nervously entered the room, her voice crackling with a bit of fear, "I had seen you coming in, and...if it's not...can I have your autograph?"

She extended a crumpled piece of paper and a worn down pencil towards him. "Um..." Adrian hesitated. Since the lottery debacle, he'd been increasingly reluctant to sign autographs for even the loyalest fans out of fear it would backfire in his face as it had then. "Here's, um, here's the..."

"He would be glad to," Natalie put the pencil and paper in his hand and mouthed towards him, _"Don't ever turn down_ _a_ _kid_." Adrian shrugged, wiped the pencil down, and signed his autograph. "So, uh, I, I suppose you get the show over there, right?" he inquired.

"At the training center in Pristina, it is the one show from America they get regularly," Zlata was breaking into a smile to get his autograph, "You are an inspiration to so many, you know? To always bring down the big, evil people and help those less fortunate, in spite of what you have, that is pure heroism. You are someone to look up to."

"Well, um..." Adrian couldn't deny he'd been touched by this statement, even though he tried hard to maintain a neutral expression, "Well, you, you do know it is a show, it's not exactly my real, real life--although it usually is as close as it can be to my real life, really--"

"He means he's very grateful you feel that way," Natalie finished for him. She handed the paper back to Zlata. "Thank you," she told the woman, "And I am sorry about Mr. Teeger. I think what he was trying to do was heroic too. You should be proud."

Natalie choked up openly. "Thank you, that, that means so much to know someone like you can think that," she said, trying to hold back the tears, "Mitch, my husband, he did genuinely care about your people and what was happening to them. He would be happy to know you won independence in the end."

"I know he would," Zlata smiled at her, "Don't give up hope; maybe he did live through that crash and may come home yet."

Adrian shuffled about uncomfortably. While it would certainly be nice if Julie got her father back for good, he knew having Mitch alive would also likely mean the end of Natalie's employment with him, and he wasn't sure if he could handle another exhaustive assistant search (unless he'd solved his two hundredth case at that time and thus had good incentive to retire). It was at this point that a large, masculine-looking woman wearing a blue jacket with the Kosovoan flag emblazoned on the sleeves appeared in the doorway and began barking at Zlata in Slavic. Sighing, the girl answered back in her native tongue and headed for the door, pausing long enough to turn back and give the two of them a final "Thank you." The two of them just stood there for a moment, taking the entire experience in. "I really hope she wins the gold," Natalie broke the ice, a lilting edge in her voice, "I'd have to say she deserves it more than anyone else."

"Well Natalie, let's, let's not get ahead of ourselves just because Mitch helped liberate her country," Adrian countered, "I'm sure there's plenty of other well qualified entrants in the field, and if I'm judging again, you know I'll have to be impartial, right?"

Natalie looked a bit miffed as she opened her mouth to counter him, but fortunately for Adrian, Disher returned at that moment, looking a bit sheepish. "Uh, Monk, can I have your advice?" he inquired.

"What, what kind of advice, Randy?" the detective asked.

"Uh, well, they got me an opening in the decathlon this afternoon," the lieutenant told him, "Uh, you did some track and field in high school you said, how exactly did some of those events go?"

* * *

"No, no, Randy, you don't throw it overhand," Adrian, now back in his judge's suit, coached Disher--now dressed up for the decathlon--inside the locker room in Candlestick as the lieutenant attempted to throw the shot put in that exact manner, "Uh, around at waist level, like, um...like...I don't quite know what."

"Like this?" Disher held the shot put at arm's length.

"Right, right, I guess," Adrian nodded, "Now turn in circles and let it go at full speed."

Disher nodded and began spinning around in a circle, faster and faster. "Yeah, yeah, I think I got it now, Monk," he said confidently, "Yep, I think this'll be easy enough."

The door to the locker room opened. "Randy," Stottlemeyer said loudly.

"Yes?" Disher abruptly snapped to attention, letting go of the shot put in the process. The metal ball flew through the air and landed hard on Stottlemeyer's foot. The captain howled and hopped up and down in pain. "Oh, sorry sir!" Disher rushed over and grabbed for his superior's foot, "Anything I can do to..."

"No!" Stottlemeyer jumped away from him as far as he could, "Just get your stuff ready; you're on after the javelin throw! And try not to kill anyone, please! Monk, you're on in five minutes for the hurdles," he told the detective.

"Right, just, just trying to get everything straightened out here," Adrian fiddled uncomfortably with his tie again; having to wear the accursed item again was the hardest part of having to go back undercover again. "Randy, your pole," he wiped down the pole for Disher's entry in the pole vault and tossed to him. "Thanks," Disher nodded and started for the door. "Oh Monk, one more thing," he abruptly turned around and accidentally whacked Stottlemeyer in the face with the pole. "Um, never mind," he said quickly, "Just want you to see how good I am at the hundred meter dash."

He raced out the door as fast as he could, clutching all his decathlon paraphernalia. Roaring, Stottlemeyer chased after him. Adrian shook his head and took the tie off completely; regardless of how bad it might look if the cameras trained on him without it, he simply couldn't bear to wear it anymore, consequences or not.

There came another knock on the door. "Mr. Monk?" it was Marissa Whitehurst, looking rather hopeful, "Natalie said you were in here, and that you know Wendy didn't kill Shute?"

"That's, that's what it looks like now," Adrian said slowly, "And to what do I owe your presence here now?"

"I'veheard fromthe I.O.C.; they're going to rule on her eligibility this afternoon," Mrs. Whitehurst told him, "If she's innocent, I don't see any reason she can't be reinstated."

"So you want me to speak in her favor?"

"If you could, you'd be doing her a big favor."

"Here's, here's the thing," Adrian said firmly, "I'm not entirely sure her innocence in murdering Coach Shute counters having used me. I'll need more time to decide, so you may or may not see me there."

"I seriously hope you'll consider it, Mr. Monk; my daughter's come too far to be stopped from the gold when she hasn't done anything wrong. I hope you understand what I'm saying, Mr. Monk," Mrs. Whitehurst told him in parting before striding away. Adrian glanced after her suspiciously. "Oh yes," he said softly, his eyebrows raised, "I'm about eighty-seven percent sure I know exactly what you're saying, Mrs. Whitehurst."


	9. Mr Monk Has a Suspect

"So you're back, Charles," Lagos greeted Adrian as he sat down at the judges' table next to the track around Candlestick.

"Just, just for a little while, I think," Adrian said. He glanced at the track. "Hurdles?"

"Men's four hundred meter hurdles," Parkinson confirmed it for him. He raised his eyebrows as the detective hustled out and started lining the hurdles up in perfect lines. "As it is," the African judge continued once he'd returned to their table, "This looks like our last day together anyway; word has it the regular judges agreed to terms with the I.O.C. and will be back to work tomorrow." He pressed the intercom button next to his seat. "All runners to the track for the four hundred meter hurdles."

"Well, I, I guess it was good while it lasted, I suppose," Adrian shrugged. He watched the runners (from Switzerland, Paraguay, Mali, Trinidad & Tobago, Mexico, the U.K., Belgium, and Tanzania) take their places at the top of the tracks. "Um, wait, wait," he held up his hand at the contenders, "Could you line up from tall to short, or short to tall?"

The runners stared at him incredulously. "We can't change it, Charles," Krajic said, frustrated, "The order is set long before. So let's just get this over with. Just watch no one fouls anyone or commits a lane violation. Runners, on your marks," he announced, "Get set, go."

The hurdlers took off down the track. In seconds the Mexican runner stumbled over the second hurdle in line and knocked it over. Adrian seized up, but somehow managed to will himself to remain seated until the runners crossed the finish line (the Tanzanian finishing first), then leaped up and raised up all the hurdles back up into place and lined them back up properly again. "You really didn't have to, Charles," Lagos told him wearily, handing the detective the gold medal, "Let's go award these."

Adrian dug out a wipe and cleaned the medal off as best he could. He followed the others over to the medal podium in the infield, where the winners were now standing. Adrian grimaced to see the Tanzanian had torn open his shirt in victory, exposing his chest. "Here, here, good work," he mumbled, turning his head away and tossing the gold at the man.

"Hey man, what's your problem!?" the Tanzanian demanded, "You don't like me or something!?"

"Oh, well, uh, no...I mean, no, not no,...uh, no meaning yes...." Adrian struggled to find the proper way to apologize, "Uh, someone get him another shirt, please," he called to anyone who cared to listen."

"I can do it," Cadorna took the gold medal from the ground and hung it around the Tanzanian's neck. She sided up alongside Adrian and whispered gently, "You only needed to ask."

"Huh?" Adrian asked uncomfortably. Luckily, his attention was distracted as the Tanzanian national anthem started playing and the Tanzanian flag (along with the British and Trinidadian flags for second and third respectively) was hoisted up the winners' flagpoles by the stadium's south side. "Stop, stop!" he waved his hands at the flag raising crew, "You can't! Not until we get the flagpoles all the same height!"

There was an aggravated roar from Lagos. "Charles, the winner's flagpole is SUPPOSED to be higher than the others!" he said as calmly as he could. He rounded on the detective. "Tell me the truth, you're not really a judge, are you!?"

"Um," out of the corner of his eye, Adrian saw Disher charging onto the infield, waving a piece of paper in his direction. "Give, give me a minute to get back to you on that," he told an astounded Lagos, and rushed off towards the lieutenant before the judge could say anything else. "What've you got, Randy?" he asked him.

"The captain just got the hard copy of Greg's statement to the police about the other day," a puzzled-looking Disher held up the paper for Monk to see, "Read right here; he says he never did attack Wendy, that he got disgusted with the whole plan, threw the bat and stilts in the garbage, and left the stadium."

"So someone else attacked her then?" Adrian frowned, "Who, then?"

Instinctively, he scanned the massive crowd for Marissa Whitehurst. As luck would have it, she was in the second to front row in front of the long jump pit, with her arm around a scraggly man that Adrian could tell even from a distance was six foot three--the same height as Wendy's attacker--without the benefit of stilts--had been a few days ago. "Randy, call the captain and Travers; tell them to get a trace on that guy there," he pointed.

"The old guy with the wild hair?" Disher frowned.

"No, there," Adrian took the lieutenant's hand and pointed directly at their target, "I think things may have been going on here that Wendy was completely unaware of."

"All pole vaulters to the field, please; all pole vaulters to the field," came the call over the loudspeakers. Disher nodded and picked up his pole from the nearby bench. "Well, wish me luck, Monk," he told the detective grandly, "I have a good feeling I'm going to make history here today."

* * *

"So they laughed how long?" Natalie had to know as they walked down the hall towards the main conference room in Candlestick's bowels, where Wendy's hearing was to be held.

"At least a good ten minutes," Adrian informed her, "Moses--he's, he's a nice man otherwise--said it was the first time he'd seen a vaulter not go over the pole at all and fall backwards. But the lieutenant did manage to stay upright a good twelve seconds before he fell; a nice even number is something..."

The doors to the conference room swung open ahead of them. "Mr. Monk, in here," an I.O.C. page waved the two of them inside, "We'll be starting in a few minutes."

"Your name tag, it's not on straight," Adrian pointed out to him. The page ignored him. Inside the conference room, the rest of the gymnastics team plus Shannon's father were seated on benches along the right side of the room, conversing amongst themselves. Mrs. Whitehurst was also there, leaning against the wall on the left side and looking quite confident, much to Adrian's amazement given the circumstances. No sooner had he and Natalie come in and taken their seats than Stottlemeyer entered as well, leading Wendy with him. The girl turned to the detective and desperately mouthed, "Help me, please!" at him. Before Adrian could say anything, the door to the side of the dais in the front of the room swung open, and the nine member I.O.C. executive council slowly trudged out and sat down at the tables set up next to the lectern in the middle of the dais. Ghazi stepped up to the lectern and tapped the microphone several times. "Can I have your attention for a moment?" he addressed everyone present, "Please be seated," he rapped a gavel on the lectern, "We shall hereby commence this hearing to determine the eligibility to compete further in these games of one Wendy Angela Whitehurst. Is Miss Whitehurst present at this moment?"

"Right here, your Eminence," Stottlemeyer spoke up, pointing at Wendy. She weakly raised a hand in compliance. Ghazi leaned over the lectern, a stern look on his face. "Well then, Miss Whitehurst, I'm sure by now you're well aware of the charges that have been made against you," he told her with an iron glare, "Attempting to disgrace a fellow teammate, making false claims, and perhaps even murder. There is no room in the Olympic movement for someone who would dare to cheat like that, I will tell you right now. So let us hope for your sake something good can come out of this for you. As is procedure, you may have the floor now. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Wendy cautiously stepped forward towards the microphone. "I...I just want to say how sorry I am it came to all this, Mr. Chairman," she said in a crackling voice, "I...I wasn't thinking straight, wasn't thinking about how my teammates felt, and after time in jail, realize that I'm not the person I thought I was at all. But I am not a murderer, I can swear to you now!"

"But the evidence that was found at the scene was overwhelming; you had every reason to do it," spoke up another board member--Belarussian, Adrian surmised, "And to kill the man who threw you out would seem the perfect revenge, I'd say."

"If I may," Stottlemeyer raised his hand, "We at the S.F.P.D. have been looking into the matter, and we have reason to doubt it was Wendy after all. If you'd allow it, I'd like to present Detective Adrian Monk to tell you what we've found. Monk?"

He waved the detective forward. "Honorary members of the board..." Adrian began, "Could you take some drinks of water right now? We need to get your glasses there even, and..."

"Mr. Monk, we are running a hearing here," a Norwegian board member interrupted him, "Tell us what you have found."

Adrian nodded and related to the I.O.C. the evidence he'd collected. "Wendy Whitehurst may be an egotist and a liar, but she is not a murderer," he concluded.

"So do you believe she should be reinstated?" Ghazi inquired.

"Um..." Adrian thought it over hard. His gaze fell on a desperate Wendy, then to her teammates, clearly hoping he'd say no, then her mother, all but demanding with her eyes that he say yes. "Um, well, gentlemen, the question..."

"Mr. Monk, a simple yes or no will do," the Norwegian board member told him impatiently, "Should Wendy Whitehurst be reinstated!?"

Adrian searched his soul. The truth was, the answer wasn't as simple as yes or no from his point of view. "I believe Wendy is sorry about trying to frame Mark Walker to disgrace his daughter," he said slowly, "Take that into account, gentlemen, but the final decision is all yours."

Low murmurings crept through the room. "Thank you Mr. Monk, you may take a seat," Ghazi told him, "We will now hear evidence for and against banishment. Is Mark Walker present?"

"Indeed I am, Mr. Chairman," Shannon's father strode forward, looking more than eager to share his opinion about Wendy. "Gentlemen of the board, allow me to tell you what I've gone through over the last few days for the simple reason that I wanted to tell the truth," he said firmly, "As you may be aware by now, my daughter was almost killed a while back due to the arrogant negligence of that...that...that sniveling little tramp before you now," he pointed accusingly at a thoroughly humiliated Wendy, "She came to me afterwards and pleaded me on her life not to say anything about it, because she didn't want to lose her precious endorsements; never mind that she never worked to get on this team, that she bullied and pushed aside anyone who..."

"Now you hold it right there!" Mrs. Whitehurst jumped to her feet, offended, "You know as well as I do that Wendy worked hard to get on this team since the day she was born; I myself trained her harder than any..."

"Order, please, order!!" Ghazi rapped his gavel on the desk, "Continue Mr. Walker."

The man nodded firmly. "Imagine, if you will, being handcuffed in the middle of watching fencing matches, dragged to the police station and booked for something you know nothing about," he told the board, "Scared that your life has just been ruined for something you don't even understand. That, gentlemen, is what I've gone through. So in a nutshell, do not give that filthy little weasel over there," he shot another harsh finger at Wendy, "Another chance, because she deserves nothing but hard time after what I've been through--and may I remind you all that what Monk just told you is not concrete; he said he's not sure who the killer is, and..."

"I, I am eighty-seven percent sure, Mr. Walker..." Adrian tried to interrupt.

"So that's a confession that you don't know," Shannon's father almost mocked him with his comeback, "Wake up, Monk; Wendy tricked you before; she's just tricking you now. That's all I have to say."

He walked back to his seat to a few claps of applause. "Thank you," Ghazi said solemnly, "And now we call forward Mrs. Marissa Whitehurst for an argument against banishment. Mrs. Whitehurst?"

Wendy's mother stepped forward. Adrian needed to know just one more thing to up his certainty level to near one hundred percent. "Natalie, was Wendy's mother a gymnast too when she was younger?" he whispered in her ear.

"Yes, actually, and a pretty good one," Natalie whispered back, "Why?"

"Just curious. Did she make the national team too?"

"Twice, but the first time was for the Moscow games, and those got boycotted, and then she broke her leg just before the Los Angeles games and had to retire. Mr. Monk, are you insinuating what I think you're insinuating?"

She fixed him with a firm look. "I probably am," Adrian whispered back. He turned forward to listen to Mrs. Whitehurst's defense of her daughter. "Gentlemen of the board," she told the I.O.C., "It's true my daughter has made terrible mistakes over these last few days, but I can assure you she is a good person deep down, and that her confessions of guilt are genuine. And let me point out that the Walker family there may have been the victims here, but they were themselves victimizers of Wendy for months beforehand; Shannon there is far from a saint herself, a jealous little jerk unwilling to let go of her place in the sun and..."

"That's a lie, you dirty...!!" it was Mr. Walker's turn to leap to his feet.

"ORDER!!!!" Ghazi slammed the gavel down on the lectern. "Mrs. Whitehurst, please stick to the matters at hand," he informed her firmly, "We need to know for sure that Wendy would not try the same thing again if we were to grant new eligibility for her."

"You have my assurances that Wendy will do nothing else of the sort again," she told him definitively, "And in response to the other side's allegations about not enough evidence being presented to her innocence, well, gentlemen, the American dictate is innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. If you look close enough, you'll see Mr. Monk has raised enough doubts that Wendy is the monster the other side there," she gestured with equal contempt at the Walkers, "claims she is. Listen to me on this. Give my daughter the chance she deserves. I would do the same for all of you if it were you."

Thank you. You may take a seat," Ghazi informed her. "The evidence being heard," he proclaimed, "We will retire to render a final decision. When we do so, I will not tolerate any outbursts of any sort."

He and the other board members rose and walked towards their private chambers on the side of the dais. Everyone else in the conference room rose up and began shuffling about. Adrian saw Mrs. Whitehurst heading for the hall. He hustled after her. "Mrs. Whitehurst, if I may have a minute," he called to her.

"Yes, Mr. Monk," she turned to face him.

"That, that was a rather defense of Wendy, if I do say so," he buttoned her cardigan all the way up, "Natalie tells me you were quite good back in the day yourself, but it never quite worked out."

"Well, unfortunately, life tends to hit you with curves, Mr. Monk, as I'm sure you know all too well yourself," she told him, "But no matter; they're going to reinstate Wendy, and she's going to win the gold like we planned from the start."

"I'm sure you did," Adrian stepped closer to her, "Tell me, is that your boyfriend attending the meets here today with you?"

"Um," she seemed surprised he'd seen the man, "Yes, in fact, we've been going steady for a while, although truthfully Wendy hasn't quite warmed up to him yet."

"I see," Adrian nodded, "Funny thing is, though, he does tend to match the description of her attacker the other day."

Mrs. Whitehurst froze up for a minute, then broke into an uneasy laugh. "Oh, well, that, that is an interesting coincidence," she said quickly, "I don't, I don't quite know what..."

"Well I'm pretty sure I do," Adrian put his hands on his hips, "The whole plan to discredit the Walkers was your idea, Mrs. Whitehurst, wasn't it? You put Wendy up to it. But you could sense her own boyfriend had reservations about going as far as you wanted, so you got your own to take care of the job for you. Wendy said the blow hurt more than she'd thought it would; that's because it came from someone who had no qualms about swinging that bat hard, especially if the two of them don't like each other as you say. It seemed perfect, since everyone would suspect the Walkers attacked your daughter out of jealousy. But then everything got exposed and Wendy was thrown off the team. You couldn't live with that, not when you've spent her whole life pushing her to win your gold medals for you that you never got to win on your own. So you decided to step things up a notch."

"What are you going on about now, Mr. Monk?" she grew defensive, "If you're insinuating..."

"Here's what I think happened, Mrs. Whitehurst," Adrian advanced right in front of her, "You murdered Norm Shute. Wendy had to win the gold for you, and he was going to block that. You knew how tall he was, so you knew where the noose would have to be to hang him. But things didn't go as you planned yet again; you knew his height, but not his weight, and he proved too heavy and broke the noose just as he died. This shot a big hole in your plan to make his death look like a suicide, so you ran and left your daughter to take the fall unknowingly for you. Or does Wendy know you did it?"

He fixed her with a stern gaze. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Monk," Mrs. Whitehurst grew much colder now, "If you're thinking I'm that cold-hearted..."

"We all have the capability to be that cold-hearted, Mrs. Whitehurst; I was for forty years," Adrian shuffled about uncomfortably; it was a little hard, even after two years, to come to terms with the realization that he'd been just as wrong for holding such a complete grudge against his father for forty years as the man had been for driving off on his family in the first place. "I know you can be as cold-hearted as I think; you have so much to gain if Wendy wins; maybe a book deal of some kind about how you paved her path to stardom, not to mention complete redemption for your own failings. Am I touching some nerves here?"

The sound of the doors from the board's chamber opening inside the conference room caught their attention. "Looks like they're about to make a decision," Mrs. Whitehurst said haughtily, "I have to be going; I have to be there when my daughter's reinstated."

She strode inside the room. Adrian followed less surely, not entirely sure what the decision would be. Like a row of monks, the I.O.C. board solemnly shuffled back to their seats on the dais. Ghazi approached the lectern. "Wendy Whitehurst," he fixed her with a piercing glare, "The executive council has reached a split ruling on your reinstatement. Therefore, it is protocol for the International Olympic Committee to maintain the ban on eligibility until further notice."

Wendy hung her head as low murmurs and even a few claps rippled through the room. "However," Ghazi raised his hands, "Given that Detective Monk has brought up significant doubts that you committed murder, we have decided to make this ban conditional at this time. Mr. Monk," he gestured the detective forward, "The gymnastics finals are tomorrow at five. If by that time you can find positive proof that someone other than Wendy is in fact the killer, we will reinstate her in full for the competition. If not, then the ban shall be enacted for the rest of this Olympiad, with the possibility of being extended for life. Is that understood?"

"Very clearly, Mr. President, sir," Adrian nodded.

"Very good. This meeting is hereby adjourned," Ghazi declared, rapping his gavel on the lectern. He and the board shuffled towards the door as people started walking away. "Let's go then," Stottlemeyer took Wendy by the arm.

"I don't want to go back to jail," she pleaded desperately.

"You're not going back to jail," the captain reassured her, "But you'll still be under our supervision until Monk gets that positive proof, so we're going back to your dormitory, where you'll be under twenty-four hour surveillance through tomorrow at least. This way, please."

He led her out the door. Adrian saw her mother turning the other way out the door. He hustled after her. "You'd better not try to destroy any evidence, Mrs. Whitehurst," he warned her, "I will..."

"You'll do nothing, Mr. Monk," she turned on him and thrust her index finger into his chest, "You have no proof I killed Norm Shute and you know it. Mark my words, you'll find the real killer sooner than you think, so you'll feel quite sorry you tried to pin this on me."

"So you'd be willing to betray your own boyfriend to save yourself?" Adrian picked up what she was getting at, "Yes, you're a very warm person indeed, Mrs. Whitehurst...although the fact you'd let Wendy drink so recklessly in the first place is proof enough..."

"As I was saying, the police will find that killer in time, and you'll have little choice but to confirm what they find," Mrs. Whitehurst told him almost mockingly, "And then my daughter's going to win that gold that she's deserved since the day she was born, and nobody's going to stand in her way this time. And let me point out, Mr. Monk," she held her finger to his face as he started to speak up again, "I'm the only family Wendy has. If you press charges against me and throw me in jail, even if you happen to be right and I am the killer, she'll be all alone in the world. Now, tell me, would you have the courage to walk up to Wendy after that and tell her to her face that you had the gall to take away her family? To take away the only friend in the world she has to satisfy your own personal sense of justice? Well, do you, Mr. Monk? I asked you a question; do you!?"

She glared in her face. Adrian stood still, letting everything she was saying sinking in. "I didn't think so," Mrs. Whitehurst nodded, a confident smile on her face, taking his apparent silence for compliance with her viewpoint. "Well then, I think you know what to do, Mr. Monk. Or rather, what not to do."

She turned and sashayed up the hall. Adrian stood in place, silent, knowing deep down that she was absolutely right.


	10. Mr Monk Speaks Gibberish Again

"So it was Marissa!?" Natalie seemed rather shocked as Adrian related what he'd surmised outside Candlestick once the rest of the hearing participants had left.

"You don't believe me?" he raised an eyebrow.

"Well, yes, I believe you, Mr. Monk, it does make sense, but I'd never have imagined her a murderer," she admitted, "She always seemed so warm all the years I knew her."

"So what we need now is positive proof that'll seal her," Adrian paced in circles, stopping to flick at the antenna on the car parked nearest to him, "Nothing we've got right now can do that. I'm wondering if we can see how much Wendy did know; if she can turn evidence against her, we might have a solid case."

"Evidence against who, Monk?" Stottlemeyer and Disher were approaching from the gate. "Weren't you taking Wendy back to the dormitory?" the detective frowned.

"Her mother asked for a minute alone with her," Disher explained.

"Which way did they go?" the detective inquired quickly.

"Around the east side of the stadium; Monk, what're...." Stottlemeyer trailed off as Adrian burst into a job around Candlestick. He lurched to a stop as the Whitehursts came into view by a deserted ticket window. Adrian slid to a stop and ducked behind an outdoor concession stand and held up his arm at everyone rushing up behind him. He listened to the heated conversation going on. "...told you before, everything is going to be just fine, now will you just grow up!" Mrs. Whitehurst was shouting at her daughter.

"But I told you, I don't want it anymore!" Wendy was desperately protesting, "I just want to go home and put it all...!"

"Are you quitting? I didn't train you to quit on me!" her mother bellowed, "You're staying here in San Francisco and winning that gold tomorrow!"

"Are you listening to me!?" the girl screamed at her hysterically, "I don't want the medal anymore!! I don't belong here! Everyone else on the team's better without me! I'm just a...!!!"

It happened without any advance warning; Mrs. Whitehurst slugged Wendy hard across the face. "Just shut up!!" she roared at her, "I'm incredibly disappointed in you, young lady! I didn't raise you to be a coward!! After everything I've done for you over the years to get you to this point, you have no right to throw it all back in my face!! You are not quitting this Games, and that is final!! And,...!!" she thrust her finger right in Wendy's face, "If you try to quit behind my back, you're on your own! I won't help you in any way with anything from now on, and you certainly won't be welcome back home in my house; you can live your own life here and be miserable, because I'm the only friend you have in the world! Do you understand me!? I said, do you understand me!!!??"

She raised her arm, clearly ready to strike another blow. Apparently not willing to let this happen after having seen everything unfold, Stottlemeyer stepped out of his hiding place and walked briskly towards them. "Mrs. Whitehurst?" he called out. The woman immediately dropped her arm and flashed a big false smile. "Oh, Captain, um, well, you timed it just right, I was just finished discussing our hopes for tomorrow with Wendy; she's all yours now."

"I'm sure you were," the captain said sardonically. "Let's go," he gestured Wendy forward, "Oh my, that's a rather ugly mark there on your face there."

"It's nothing really worth noting, Captain," Mrs. Whitehurst quickly cut in, "She slipped on the floor by the bathrooms as we came out here and fell on her face. Didn't you?"

She flashed her daughter a murderous look that all but telegraphed her to keep quiet. Wendy hastily nodded. "Well, we might want to get a doctor to look at it anyway," Stottlemeyer remarked, "Probably nothing, but then again, you never do know."

He gave Mrs. Whitehurst a murderous look of his own. "Actually, while you're here," he told her, "I think I'd like to ask..."

"Sorry, Captain, but I've got an important matter to attend to at the moment," she said quickly, walking towards her car parked nearby, "If I were you, I'd keep your eyes open; the real killer of Norm Shute should be revealed any time now."

"I think we already know well who it is," Adrian growled, "So why..."

"Mr. Monk, if I may remind you, you don't have positive proof of anything right now," Mrs. Whitehurst told him with more than a tinge of cockiness, "If you're insinuating I did it, let me remind you I'd be well within my rights to sue you for more than you have. It certainly wouldn't do all those loyal fans of yours any good to know you got obsessed with bring in the wrong person and ruined your life in the process. Now if you'll please excuse me."

She climbed into her car and drove off before the conversation could go any further. "Oh well," Stottlemeyer shrugged, "as I was saying, this way," he gestured Wendy to follow him. Adrian racked his brain for any clue he might have missed as everyone walked back around the stadium to the captain's cruiser, but none was forthcoming. Which left one final option left to pursue. "Um, Wendy," he spoke up once they were out on the road, breaking an awkward silence among everyone, "I'm wondering, would you say your mother's driven you hard to get to this point?"

"Why do you want to know?" her voice was very soft.

"Oh, just wondering," the detective told her, "She just seems the type to want you to win the gold no matter what."

"Well, she does have a point," the girl said, "People don't care about you if you don't win the gold; they don't care that you even exist. Without the gold, nothing you do's worth anything."

"That's not true at all," Natalie told her, "Wendy, a lot people don't care who wins or loses. I for one am grateful you brought Julie all those hours of friendship over the years; that counts for something in my book."

"Too bad it's too late now," Wendy looked blankly out the window, "If you want to, Captain, you can shoot me; nobody'll care now."

Stottlemeyer hit the brakes in shock. "You really think killing yourself's going to solve anything!?" he spun around, aghast to be hearing such a negative statement.

"It's better than living what I'm living now!" Wendy put her face in her hands, "If I can't go home, I just want to die!"

"Wendy, listen, there's still so much good you can do for a lot of people," Disher broke in, "Listen, we all saw what your mother did to you; Monk thinks she's the killer. If you know anything..."

"I don't, sorry," she shook her head.

"Wendy, you can't do any good protecting her," Adrian pressed, "She left you to take the fall for the murder; that's not what a parent's supposed to do. She's out of control, Wendy, and she'll keep on hurting people unless we do something to stop her, and for that we need your..."

"I can't!!" she all but screamed in his face, "She's my mother, she's the only friend I have! I don't want to be alone in the world!!"

"It's hard to face that, I know, but she's not your friend," Natalie told her, "Friends don't manipulate you for their own purposes, or leave you to take the punishment for their actions. Now Wendy, please, we can help you if you help us, but you've got to do the right thing."

"I don't even know what the right thing is!" she wailed, "It's not as simple as you say it is!"

"I know, I know, but if you'll just trust..." Stottlemeyer all but begged her.

"I'm sorry, but my answer's no," she told him, "She's still my mother. Now please, just take me back to the dorm and forget the whole thing."

She gave him a firm look. "OK, if you say so," the captain nodded glumly. The rest of the ride back to the dormitory at Stanford was just as quiet as the beginning had been. Stottlemeyer hailed down a guard on the level Wendy's room was on when they reached it. "Keep a closer eye on her than I'd said earlier," he whispered to the man, "She's hinted she might be suicidal; don't want to take any..."

"I can hear you," Wendy piped up loudly and strongly, "Don't bother; I told you, it doesn't matter if I live or die anymore. Nothing matters."

Adrian heard the clicking of doors up the hall. The other members of the gymnastics team were back in their rooms for the night and had apparently heard her outburst. Surprisingly, more than a few of them looked sorry for her wretched condition. Wendy had noticed them popping out of their rooms as well, for she took a few steps towards them and fell to her knees in front of them. "I'm so sorry, all of you, I didn't think about anything," she sobbed, "You don't deserve to have me associated with you. You don't have to forgive me..."

"Damn right we don't!!" Shannon's voice rose up in anger from the back of the pack, "Why the hell are you even still here!? Word came in your replacement's coming in from Lansing, so why aren't you on the plane back...!?"

"All right, all right, that'll do!" Stottlemeyer raised his hands irritably, "Everyone back to bed, please! We've got a long night ahead of us, and you all need to be ready for your big day tomorrow."

"You didn't answer my question; why is she still here!?" Shannon was far from placated.

"Miss Walker, I really don't think it's any of your concern, but our investigation is ongoing, and we have strong proof Wendy here was framed by someone else," the captain told her, clearly straining to be patient with her, "Now I understand how you'd be still upset over the whole matter, but..."

"But nothing!!" she roared, "This piece of trash is twisting your arm, you idiot, and you're stupid enough to fall for it! And you, Monk!" she pointed an accusing finger at him, "You're a whole lot stupider than on TV to gullibly believe everything she...!!!"

"I SAID BACK TO BED!!!" Stottlemeyer lost his cool. The gymnasts, Shannon included, hastily shuffled back to their rooms. "What!!??" she protested, noticing the dirty glances they were now giving her, "I'm standing up for us!!"

Stottlemeyer shook his head. "Don't take that too seriously," he said, helping Wendy up, "Now just have a good night's sleep and please don't try anything rash. Don't forget what we told you."

"Maybe I will, maybe I won't," she shook her head, trudging into the room as Disher opened the door for her.

"And don't forget, our offer's open if you change your mind," Adrian added, "I think you know how to reach us."

Wendy didn't respond as she flopped down on the bed. Stottlemeyer shook his head. "Keep a close watch on her, Lieutenant," he authorized Disher, "I want her alive in the morning."

"I'll do what I can, sir," Disher seemed a little nervous of the weight of what he was being asked, but steadfastly took his place by the door. The captain sighed as he and his associates walked down the stairs to the parking lot. "I'll tell you, that blow we saw clearly wasn't the only way she's been abused by her mother," he confided in them, "To leave her with that bad an outlook on life and not care that her daughter doesn't care if she dies or not..."

"Exactly," Natalie agreed, "I'd never put Julie through that kind of life; I've told her before it doesn't matter to me if she wins anything, as long as she tries hard and enjoys what..."

"Hold on, I think you've got a message, Captain," Adrian interrupted. Sure enough, the radio in Stottlemeyer's car was buzzing. The captain rushed over and pulled it through the window. "Yeah, what've you got?" he inquired.

"Uh, Captain, you're not going to believe this," the officer on the other end told him, "Wendy Whitehurst's replacement on the Olympic team just got attacked getting off the plane. We think it's the same guy."

An abrupt silence filled the parking lot. "Damn it, damn it, damn it!!!" Stottlemeyer muttered in disgust under his breath. "All right, we'll be there as fast as we can," he told the officer.

* * *

Twenty-five minutes later, they pulled up in front of the Continental arrival gate at the airport, where a knot of police were waiting for them. "All right, exactly what happened!?" Stottlemeyer breathlessly asked the nearest one as he sprung from the car.

"OK, it was pretty much the same as what happened to Wendy Whitehurst the other night, Captain," the officer explained to him, "Victim's one Emily Southerton from Lansing, she was the last one cut from the team and got the call to come in as Wendy's replacement. She got out of the gate, the attacker came out of the nearest bathroom, cracked her one in the chest, then bashed her over the head for good measure."

"Oh my God," Natalie grimaced horribly; clearly from her expression Adrian could tell she was imaging such a terrible fate happening to her own daughter, "Is she all right?"

"Unconscious when the ambulance got here, but they think she'll be all right," the officer assured her, "She certainly won't be able to be in the Games, though, and if this keeps up, I don't know who'd want to be."

"Did anyone get a look at the guy?" Adrian asked, straightening their informant's badge.

"Green and yellow jacket and ski mask, just like the guy from the other day," the officer told him, "But when he was running away, he took off his ski mask in the garage for whatever reason before he got in his car. Security camera in the corner got a pretty good look at him and his license plate, and here's what came up when we ran it through."

He handed Stottlemeyer the relevant information. "Lyle Campbell, formerly of Texas, served four years for assault and battery," he mused out loud, "Yep, easy to see why Marissa Whitehurst would want to date a mutation like this guy; he makes for good easy muscle in a..."

"Hey Captain," another cop came running up out of breath, "We've got a trace on him, Captain; he's stuck behind a traffic jam northbound on I-880 in Hayward near the Winton Avenue Exit; we're trying to get units out there before it clears up."

"Good work; I want everything you got north and south of there up and running to bring him in," Stottlemeyer ordered him, "Monk, Natalie, it's showtime."

He waved them back to his own car. "He only got up to Hayward in all the time it took us to get here?" Natalie was puzzled.

"That's the old Nasty Nimitz for you; it isn't always as bad as they say it is," Stottlemeyer gunned the engine and tore off towards the airport exit, narrowly missing a collission with a shuttle bus pulling towards the curb. "OK, I, I don't think we need to be in THIS much of a hurry!" Adrian whimpered, gripping the door handle hard.

"That jam could clear up at any moment, Monk; I've got to go fast if we want to get there in time," his superior countered, swerving hard onto Interstate 280, "That's why we're taking the shortcut over the bay and heading him off."

"Well," Adrian grimaced as they just missed another collision with a van, "It would indeed help if we got to Campbell as quickly as possible; now that he's carried out this task and sent a message to anyone that might take Wendy's place, Marissa really would have no further use for him; maybe she's already set something up to...TRUCK, TRUCK, TRUCK!!!!"

Stottlemeyer swerved hard around the tractor trailer in the far left lane. "Natalie, siren, under the seat," he instructed her. Natalie picked it up--only to have Adrian snatch it away and wipe it down. "Just, just have to make sure," he told her, "Make sure you put it on the center of the roof when...that's not the center, Natalie."

She had stuck it on the roof as far as she could reached out the window, which was far from the center. And Adrian didn't dare to climb out and fix it, especially when they were going at least forty miles an hour over the speed limit. He thus resorted to the only thing he could do; he closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was in the middle of a white, static-free room with Trudy standing at the other end, beckoning to him. For once, this worked surprisingly well, and he had no further qualms for a good ten minutes, when Stottlemeyer's radio crackled again. "Jam's cleared, Captain, he's going close to a hundred now, approaching the Davis Street Exit in San Leandro," the officer nearest to the pursuit informed him, "He fired back at us, but he was moving too fast to hit us."

"Stay at a safe distance, but don't lose him," Stottlemeyer instructed him, "I'll be about six miles ahead of him once I get over the bridge here; get a roadblock set up there at 23rd Avenue; I want him alive, so just aim for the tires if we have to stop him."

He floored the gas pedal and peeled down the ramp onto Interstate 880 northbound--going in the wrong direction, of course, although traffic had already been blocked off down the road. Adrian shut his eyes as tight as he could to block out the fact they were now going over a hundred the wrong way, but it was too much a factor to ignore. "Stop, stop, please, stop!!" he begged weakly, "I'll give you anything!"

"Monk, what do you think I'd want from you other than to act your age!?" the captain asked, frustrated. Perhaps mercifully, they'd reached the roadblock the local police were setting up; already three cruisers and several sawhorses were in place. Stottlemeyer braked to a halt behind the blockage. "OK Monk, you and Natalie get over on the shoulder out of harm's way," he instructed them, "If he goes through this, I don't want you in the middle of it."

"Right," Adrian felt his stomach to make sure it wasn't about to explode from the wild ride as he climbed out. "Oh, but first..." he reached over and pushed the siren to the middle of the roof, "There, nice and even now."

"Come on, Mr. Monk," Natalie impatiently dragged him to the side of the road. More cruisers were starting to pull up to add to the roadblock, and a helicopter could be heard buzzing in the distance. The officers all cocked their guns and took their positions behind the roadblock in anticipation. It was no more than five minutes later, accompanied by the wailing of sirens, that two pinpricks of light appeared in the distance. Even from a distance, though, Adrian could notice something out of the ordinary. "Uh oh," he groaned softly.

"What?" Natalie asked him.

"He can't stop," Adrian gestured at Campbell's car, which was swerving all over the road much faster than it needed to, "I'll bet Marissa tampered with his brake line," Adrian lamented, "She gave him just enough pressure to get to the airport and get the job done taking out Wendy's replacement. Captain!" he cried out to Stottlemeyer, hunched over the hood of the nearest cruiser ready to open fire, "He's got no brakes!"

"What!?" Stottlemeyer turned, his associates' words being drowned out by the sirens and helicopters, "What's that, Monk!?"

"Watch it!" came the cry before Adrian could say it louder. Campbell, seeing the roadblock waiting for him, had tried to swerve down the 23rd Avenue exit ramp, but had overshot it by just a little too much and hit the concrete embankment so fast that it sent him spiraling through the air down to the street below, landing, most inopportunely, on top of a gas truck. Adrian dared to hit the ground as a huge explosion rocked the street below; even when down he could still feel the heat from the massive fireball. Once he reasoned it was safe, he trudged glumly to the edge of the overpass and glanced down at the wreckage below (at least, he could see, the truck driver seemed to have escaped the inferno with at most minor injuries and was crawling about on the road next to the blazing wreckage of his rig and Campbell's car), knowing full well that he just might have lost the last chance to convict Marissa Whitehurst of her crimes.

* * *

"It's got to be here somewhere, it's just got to be," the detective was mumbling almost hysterically the next afternoon, walking in tight circles around the weight room Norm Shute had been killed in.

"Well you're not going to see it if you get all hyper, Mr. Monk," Natalie tried to calm him down.

"How can I, we're almost out of time here!" he howled. A quick glanced at his watch confirmed no more than twenty minutes till the gymnastics finals would begin, and things had gotten even worse. Once word of the attack on Emily Southerton had gotten out, any further replacements that could have come in if Wendy wasn't reinstated had declined to do so out of fear the same fate would before them. Thus, the U.S. team was faced with the possibility of disqualification if they didn't had enough players to compete, Ghazi had informed Adrian when the detective had met him at the door of Maples Pavilion when he'd come back to look for a clue he might have missed, and that had only served to put more pressure on him to deliver now.

To make matters worse, there came a tapping on the weight room door. "Oh don't tell me you're still out looking for something you already have, Mr. Monk?" Mrs. Whitehurst's voice was undeniably cocky now as she slid into the weight room, an arrogant smile plastered on her face. Adrian blood pressure spiked. "Do you always come to rub in it to people you think you've beaten!?" he growled, "Of course you do, that fits your character perfectly. I know you killed off Lyle Campbell last night, Mrs. Whitehurst; it'll only take a quick check to confirm his brakes were tampered with."

"But you can't prove it was me that cut them, so why bother?" she told him smugly, "If I were you, I'd just get back to the stands and watch my daughter win the gold."

"Is that all you care about, the gold medal!?" Natalie blew up herself. She stormed right up to the woman she'd once considered a friend, "I thought I knew you, Marissa, but the truth is you're a monster of the worst kind! I saw you hit Wendy yesterday; no mother should EVER get away with something like that, and we're going to bring you down no matter what it takes!"

"Temper, temper, Natalie," Mrs. Whitehurst yawned, "Someone might think you have anger management problems. As I've said more times than I've cared to, there's no way either of you can prove I did anything wrong. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some important things to take care of before the competition."

She turned and marched out the door with her head held high. "She's going to try and sabotage the other gymnasts," Adrian groaned, "Tamper with the equipment, drug them, something to make sure Wendy wins the gold."

"Doesn't she even know that Wendy isn't officially reinstated yet?" Natalie had to inquire.

"You saw how overconfident she is, Natalie; she assumes that all the proof points to Campbell and they'll assume he did it alone, and they'll have to reinstate Wendy then, but Mr. Ghazi said that's not how it would work. But she'll carry out whatever she wants to carry out regardless, so we've got to find whatever's in here," Adrian started walking in faster circles around the room. "What is it we're not seeing?" he whimpered, glancing maniacally into every square inch of the weight room, "We know she hanged him from the vent, but how did she do it!? It's right here; why can't I see it!!??"

"All right, I know you're upset, Mr. Monk, but I think you really need to calm down now," Natalie tried to calm him, "We can't solve this if you're uptight like this."

"I can't help it!!" he snapped, "It feels like I've got the whole weight of the world on my shoulder, pressing down like a four hundred pound iron...!!"

He stopped and started making several hand gestures. His face suddenly lit up. "I know how she did it," he exclaimed, "Natalie, call the captain, the I.O.C., and campus security; Marissa Whitehurst's going to..."

Suddenly the entire room began shaking. "Earthquake!" Natalie surmised correctly. In a flash she dragged Adrian into the corner and smothered him as weights and other items crashed to the floor. Fortuitously, it was no more than fifteen seconds later at most that the earthquake stopped, and everything returned to normal. "Well, that wasn't really that bad," Natalie conceded, climbing back up to her feet, "Probably no worse than a four and a half, I'd say. Shouldn't even delay the competition, I'd bet. Now you were saying, Mr. Monk? Mr. Monk?"

Adrian apparently didn't hear her. He glanced around blankly at the toppled weights and cracked walls. A low sound escaped his throat. "What, what is it?" Natalie leaned towards him."

"Boolash, den offa morv, rallet," Adrian mumbled softly.

"Huh?" she frowned.

"Boolash den offa morv, rallet," Adrian turned towards her, his eyebrows raised in puzzlement that she'd be questioning him.

"Mr. Monk, you're not speaking in English," she put a hand to his head, "Are you sure you're all right?"

Ammu shork stiffstickle tag," Adrian rolled his eyes as if she'd said something dumb, "Normat, effa zop raz maddix yob twol dum zet oblo yob timmit."

He gestured wildly for her to follow him out the door. Natalie pulled out her cell phone as she did. "Captain, it's me," she told Stottlemeyer, "Mr. Monk solved it, but we've got a problem."


	11. The True Gold Medal

"Monk, come on, snap out of it," Stottlemeyer ordered the detective a few moments later outside the weight room, "I know you're in there, Monk, so just get back to reality and tell me how Marissa Whitehurst killed Norm Shute."

"Dalg glidj blimlimlim," Adrian told him matter-of-factually.

"In ENGLISH, Monk!"

"DAAAAALLG, GLLIIIDDDDJJ, BLLIIMMLIMMMLIMMM," the detective was starting to look frustrated that no one was picking up what he was saying. Stottlemeyer put both hands over his face and growled in frustration. "This is a nightmare, really it is," he muttered.

"All right, well, you said this happened before," Natalie told him, "How'd you get him back to normal then?"

"Well, he sort of went back on his own free accord," Disher admitted, "Dr. Kroger would be able to tell you more...if we could get a good medium, that is." He leaned close in on the detective. "Maybe if you wrote it down for us, Monk, then we'll get an idea what you're saying."

"Arggee?" Adrian raised an eyebrow, then nodded as he understood and gestured for Natalie to hand him a piece of paper. He wrote down his summation on it and handed it to Disher. "Here we go," the lieutenant held it aloft triumphantly, "She did it with...coff laff emmin zlop, dalg glidj blimlimlim. OK, maybe we need to rethink this."

"Whatever gave you that idea, Lieutenant?" his superior muttered sarcastically. Disher snapped his fingers. "He can mime it," he exclaimed, "Monk, just point out what we need to see; we can pick it up from there."

"Harg chark," Adrian understood this as well. He rushed into the weight room and gestured at a weight machine--the exact one Disher had noticed was set at exact four hundred pounds the other day. "Not so fast, Monk," Disher waved at him, "OK, first syllable, sounds like...weight? Wait, OK...wait for what?"

"Trowl, trowl," Adrian rolled his eyes, "Blimlimlim rog teow gaa regnif stinfp!!"

He made a swiping gesture at the weights. "Second syllable, sounds like...scratch?" the lieutenant guessed, "No, uh, claw? No, rub...swipe?"

"Acker," Adrian flashed him a thumbs up. "Right, got it," Disher clapped his hands triumphantly, "She killed him with a wait-swipe."

"RANDY!!!!" Stottlemeyer bellowed loudly enough to be heard clear to the other side of the pavilion. "All right, enough is enough," the captain hefted a weightlifting bar with its weights removed, "If I have to do this the hard way, so be it."

"Wait a minute, you're not going to do what I think you are, Captain!?" Natalie shot him a disapproving look.

"Natalie, if what you said's true, Marissa Whitehurst's out there right now planning to do something terrible, so whatever gets Monk back to reality, I have to do it," Stottlemeyer raised the bar over his head, "Sorry about this, Monk; it's going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you."

"Don't!" Natalie's cry of mercy went unheeded as the captain walloped Adrian over the head with the bar. "Ziffer!!" the detective roared, clutching his head. He rounded on his superior with a frustrated glare, "Torbit mar repumst...!!"

He stopped and glanced up at the clock in the weight room. "Zeck, zeck!" he groaned, and abruptly turned and ran out the door and turned left towards the pavilion floor. "Wait, where are you going!?" Natalie cried at him. He did not turn around. Sighing, she ran after him. "Five o'clock," Disher looked at the clock, "Uh oh, competition's starting any minute now. If Mrs. Whitehurst's..."

"Quiet," Stottlemeyer held up his hand. He mimicked Adrian's gestures against the weight machine, then snapped his fingers. "I know what he was saying," he exclaimed, "Lieutenant, get the fingerprint kit out of the car."

Meanwhile Adrian burst through the doors into the pavilion floor. He glanced around in every direction, then rushed towards the stands and scanned up and down the aisles. He noticed Julie sitting by herself in a seat in the third row (next to an empty one her mother had reserved for the competition when they'd first learned Wendy was going to be in it a few months back) and frantically waved for her to come forward. "What, what is it?" she asked when she was in front of him.

"Nomat, eber mot irt yip morc?" he asked her.

"Huh?" she frowned, "Mr. Monk, is this some kind of joke? If it is, I don't get it at..."

"IRT YIP MORC; ZIG FARR NARL!!" he threw up his hands in frustration. Natalie came huffing up at that moment. "Is he back to normal yet?" she asked her daughter.

"Not even in the same universe as normal," Julie shook her head, "What's going on? Why's he...?"

Adrian held up his hand and looked around the pavilion floor again. His eyes narrowed as he set his gaze on the vaulting horse. The Belorussian team was standing at the end of the approach lane, and one of them was getting ready to rush towards it in a final practice run. The detective's eyes widened again. "ZERB, ZERB!!" he cried running as fast as he could towards the girl. He leaped forward and tackled her halfway to the horse. "What are you doing!?" she demanded in broken English.

"Ommi denn rivit mir erren plitz," Adrian told her, "Stim rik." He gestured for her to stay down and ran to the horse. Sure enough, sticking out of the center, in deep enough to be barely noticeable--and certainly not by a gymnast who'd be running towards it at full speed--was a hypodermic needle. Abruptly the sound of a gun cocking behind him rang out. "I hate to do this, Monk, but you forced me to," Mrs. Whitehurst's voice whispered in his ear, "No one else can see this gun, so just turn around, walk away, and tell them you didn't see anything."

"Eppit vronk, trik amin," Adrian shook his head.

"Don't pull that on me!" she hissed, "Now just turn around and...!"

There came another loud roar, and Mrs. Whitehurst was slammed full tilt to the floor. "Get away from him!" Natalie roared. The two women rolled around on the floor, grappling for control of the gun, until Natalie able to knock it away. She slammed both hands down on her former friend's throat. "Just stay down, you sick diseased monster!!" she bellowed.

"Pugjab, letinan," Adrian thanked her.

"What is this about, Mr. Monk!?" Ghazi came huffing up. Adrian gestured for the microphone in his hand. He waved at Natalie for a wipe and rubbed it down before bringing it to his lips. "Orvit lemnap," he addressed the crowd, apparently not noticing their snickering and laughter at his scrambled vocabulary, "Ogna shor, torb sloar homma rish trowl positive proof Marissa Whitehurst here murdered Norm Shute."

"Mr. Monk, you're speaking English again," Natalie gave him a strange look.

"Well of COURSE I'm speaking English, Natalie; haven't you understood a word I've been saying all this time!?" Adrian raised a frustrated eyebrow at her.

"I don't care what language you're speaking, Mr. Monk, you're making a hideous mistake!!" Mrs. Whitehurst bellowed at him, "And furthermore I've had it with you; I'm suing you for fifteen times every cent you have, and you'll...!!"

"Hey SHUT UP!!!" Natalie screamed right in her face, cowing her, "What is that you put in there, a needle?" she noticed it in the horse as well, "I see, you were going to drug everyone else so they'd fall flat when they'd land and make it easier for Wendy to win, weren't you!?"

She fixed Mrs. Whitehurst with a murderous gaze. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, Natalie, and for the record, I'm sueing you into the ground too!" the suspect yelled at her, "You're the real animal here, not me, treating me with complete contempt and...!!"

"Complete contempt? Isn't that exactly how you've treated everyone who's stood in your way so far?" Adrian glared at her. "Ladies and gentlemen," he addressed the crowd, "Marissa Whitehurst here is the real killer of Norm Shute. I suppose you'd like to know how she did it? Well, in a nutshell, she threw her weight around...well, not her weight. When Shute kicked Wendy off the team," he rounded on the suspect again, "you knew you had to ask fast. You went to his office and after making sure he wasn't in--you needed all the time you could get to set your scheme up--you left an anonymous note asking him to meet you in the weight room, maybe fifteen to twenty minutes from the point he'd read it or so. Then you went into action. You raided the back storeroom for the rope to hang him--inventory can confirm it was in fact stolen--but you didn't want to take the chance of Shute seeing you face to face in case something went wrong. So you crawled into the air ducts into the weight room and set up the closest thing to an automated hanging machine you could get--the weight machine we found. You set it at the maximum setting--four hundred pounds, which would pack quite a punch when released--and attached one end of the rope to the weights. Then using the rollers you stole as well, you set up the noose from the ceiling at Shute's height so it would slip right around his neck when he came in. Then all you needed was a triggering mechanism. You attached another piece of rope to the handlebars on the machine, then climbed into the duct and pulled the handlebars back as far as they would go--which, since the machine's right near the duct, was right into the bars, denting them. When Shute came in, you let go of the rope, the weights snapped back down on the machine, and Shute was quickly suffocated by four hundred pounds of pressure around his neck. But he put up just enough of a struggle and was heavy enough to break the noose. He died seconds later anyway, but that shot down your suicide plan--you were going to leave a fake suicide note behind, weren't you?--so you panicked, grabbed all the rope you could get immediately, and ran off through the ducts, little knowing your daughter would be along moments later to take the fall for you."

"Well that's a lovely little story, Monk, but you can't prove it at all!" Mrs. Whitehurst barked at him.

"But we can," Stottlemeyer and Disher came striding across the floor. "Your fingerprints are all over the machine and in the ducts," the captain said (Disher, covered from head to toe in fingerprint chalk, verified the testing had taken place), "So is that your purse over there?" he pointed at one lying haphazardly against the edge of the stands, looking like it had been hastily tossed aside in a frenzy, "Lieutenant, go open it up and see what treasures we can find."

"Not without a warrant you can't!" Mrs. Whitehurst bellowed, but Disher paid no attention as he popped open the purse and slowly withdrew a length of rope with broken ends that had clearly been made into a noose and a piece of paper. "To the cruel world that ruins everything for me, I Norman Shute have hereby decided I can no longer go on living," he read off it.

"That's all I need to know," Stottlemeyer drew his handcuffs, 'Marissa Theresa Whitehurst, you're under arrest for two counts of premeditated murder, two counts of assault and battery, one count of child abuse..."

"Child abuse nothing!" she spat at him, "You have nothing to substantiate that stupid claim! And furthermore, you can't charge me with assault if...!!"

"Oh shut up, Mom, it's over!!" came Wendy's agitated voice from behind them. Her head hung low, she trudged forward. "I knew she and that jerk Lyle were up to something; they were on the phone a lot back in Texas," she admitted to Stottlemeyer, "I didn't hear enough to get suspicious, but they had mentioned stuff like, 'Leveling the field.' I wouldn't be surprised if she got him to attack me and the other girl you said got it last night. And yeah, it was her idea to discredit Shannon to keep her from telling everyone I'd been drinking and driving; she'd told me she'd kick me out if I didn't go along with her on it."

"How...how...how...!!!??" her mother stumbled for words, utterly stunned Wendy would stand up to her. "I see," Stottlemeyer broke into a smile, "And for the record, Wendy, did your mother hit you before last night too?"

"Every..." Wendy choked up in a very uncomfortable manner that Adrian was by now very familiar with; he'd seen Benjy react that way numerous times over the last few years when forced to come to terms with his father's grave misdeeds. "Every time I didn't meet her expectations, she...she did what you saw her do yesterday," the girl admitted softly.

"Well then, Marissa, I guess my child abuse charges do hold up after all," Stottlemeyer told her with a big grin, slapping the handcuffs on her, "You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law..."

"How could you do this!?" Mrs. Whitehurst interrupted, flashing her daughter a look that mixed rage with shock and confusion, "After all I've done for you...!?"

"You think this is easy for me, Mom!?" Wendy all but screamed at her, "I'm breaking up inside to have to do this! But you're out of control, and I have to do it!"

"I thought...I thought you wanted to win...!?" she mumbled softly, looking like she was drifting into another dimension.

"Not the way you do," Wendy shook her head firmly, "I'd rather die than win your way."

Mrs. Whitehurst hung her head sadly, apparently finally realizing the full extent of what she'd brought about. "As I was saying," Stottlemeyer started leading her away, "You have the right to an attorney...."

The crowd broke into applause that the caper had been solved. Wendy, however, slumped to her knees and started sobbing. "Wendy, don't be upset," Natalie put a sympathetic arm around her, "You did the right thing."

"But she's right, I'm alone in the world now!!" she cried, "I just threw away my only friend!"

"She lied to you about that, Wendy; she's not your only friend at all," Adrian found himself smiling as he helped her up, "I think you can count me as one now too."

"Because I got your man for you!?" she raised an eyebrow at him.

"No, because I do appreciate people willing to be honest when they need to," he told her, "Just, just promise me that you'll forgive your mother some time, even if she never does get out of jail; I know from experience holding grudges isn't the way to go. Promise?"

He looked her in the eye. "I'll try," Wendy mumbled softly.

"I think that's a good start," Natalie nodded. "Which also means," she turned to Ghazi, who'd been silently taking in all the preceding events behind them, "That she's reinstated again now, right? We upheld our part of the bargain, didn't we?"

"Indeed you all have," Ghazi nodded, "You are indeed reinstated, Miss Whitehurst. You may rejoin your teammates. And good luck in this competition."

"Thank you sir," Wendy nodded softly.

"Well then, let's go get you ready," Disher, having finally dusted the fingerprint dust off himself, led her over to the American bench, where the rest of the team had been taking in the events before them. "Hi there," the lieutenant greeted everyone, "Think you all should know Wendy's back in, so you don't have to worry about a..."

"Then I quit!" came the angry shout from the back of the pack. Shannon shoved her way through her teammates and stormed towards the bench. "What are you saying!?" one of them asked her, very worried.

"I've told you before, I refuse to be on the same team as that!" Shannon jerked a rough finger at Wendy, "So if she's back in, I quit!"

"You can't just quit on us now!" Katie protested desperately, "We'll still be one team member short; we'll get disqualified if you walk away, Shannon!"

"Then so be it!" she roared, grabbing her belongings and starting to storm to the exits, "Because if you want to give that piece of trash a second chance, then you all deserve to be disqualified!"

"This is utterly gutless of you, Shannon!" another girl whose name Adrian wasn't sure of roared after her in anger, "We stood by you when Wendy tried to slander you, and this is how you repay us!?"

"How I repaid you!?" Shannon spun around and glared back, "You turned on me last night when you and everyone told me I overreacted to her, so for the record YOU all stabbed ME in the back! You know full well it's either her or me, and since you've all clearly chosen her, you can all go to hell!"

"Now wait just a minute...!" Adrian tried to intercede.

"And you, Monk, I'll see you in Hell too for championing her!!!" she snarled at him, "You're a louse, and someday all your loyal fans are going to know it too! And I hope you never do find out who killed your stupid wife! Actually, you know what, I hope whoever killed her kills you too and chops you up into stupid little pieces, because that's what you deserve!!!"

Adrian sputtered in rage and shock as she started storming away. "What in the blazes is going on!?" her father came rushing over.

"Get a cab, Dad; I'm going home!" she commanded him.

"But, but, but the competition's about to start!" he protested, "Don't you want to play for...!?"

"I said NOW; are you deaf, you old dirt bag!!??" she insulted him, then stomped towards the exit, leaving Mr. Walker to frantically rush after her, blubbering. The rest of the gymnasts exchanged worried glances. "Now what do we do!?" another one whose name escaped Adrian asked, clearly scared.

"You're scheduled to go fifth in the round, so you have about five minutes to come up with something, or I'm afraid we'll have to disqualify your team after all," Ghazi pointed out for their benefit.

"We'll never find someone in that amount of time!" the same girl lamented.

"Wait a minute, wait just a minute," Adrian held up his hand. A smile was crossing his face. "Mr. Chairman, would you accept anyone who's even remotely qualified as a replacement?" he asked Ghazi.

"I suppose if that person has some prior experience in gymnastics, yes," the I.O.C. chairman nodded.

"What are you thinking about, Mr. Monk?" Natalie inquired.

"Oh, just something that'll make sure you'll never ask me for money for at least the next year, Natalie," Adrian told her, his smile widening, "How'd you like to be a proud parent?"

* * *

"Great job, Julie, great job!" Natalie was in fact incredibly proud as her daughter hopped down from the parallel bars about forty minutes later (she had volunteered to fill in as the team's coach, as no one else was around the fill the position, and had managed to cajole Adrian into joining her, despite his protests it wasn't something he'd be interested in). The detective himself was clapping hard as well, however. While Julie hadn't given the best parallel bar performance of the meet (the German gymnast assigned to it had taken that honor according to what the judges had said), it had been good enough to keep the American team in a dead heat with the Germans, Russians, and Kosovoans going into the final round with the vault. "Quite, quite good," he congratulated her as she returned to the bench, "And thank you for not being the best at the uneven bars, too; you'd've been putting your life in grave danger up there."

"I don't know, maybe I could have done a little better," Julie wasn't completely convinced she'd done well, "Maybe if I'd had more time, if I'd known I'd have been doing this..."

"I don't care if you'd been the worst one out there," Natalie gave her a reassuring hug, "This is one of the happiest moments of my life either way."

"Exactly," Adrian said quickly, "Now please, to make it better, we need to take care of that chalk dust too."

He passed Julie a batch of wipes and turned his gaze back to the vault area. The Germans had first draw, and their chosen contender charged up the lane and landed a fairly good jump that drew fairly large applause. Next came the Russian contender, striding up to the starting point with clear confident swagger. And indeed she had good reason to be, Adrian saw, for her approach, jump, and landing were just about as perfect as could be, generating even louder applause. "That, that looks pretty tough to beat," he remarked, "Um, who's going to be doing it for us?"

He glanced down the bench. At the far end, still apart from her teammates, Wendy slowly raised her hand. "I, I don't know if I can do it, though," she said softly, "I'm too rusty, probably, and I don't know if I was ever as good as she was just now, and..."

"Just do what you can," Natalie tried to encourage her, "If it works, it works, and if not, well, very few..."

Adrian wasn't paying attention. Zlata Tadic was going to try the vault for the Kosovoans. He watched with rapt attention as the young girl nervously approached the starting line, took a deep nervous breath, and ran forward. Unfortunately, her foot clipped the horse as she went over it, causing her to fall flat on her stomach on the other side. "Oh dear," the detective shook his head, moved in no small way by the tears she was starting to shed as medical crews rushed forward to help her up, "So much for her dreams."

"Come on, Mr. Monk, don't say that," Natalie chided him firmly, but he could tell she was disappointed Zlata would not be getting a medal. "OK Wendy, it's all up to you," his assistant told the girl, "Just do your best."

"Just, uh, try and, uh, be the jump, or something inspirational like that," Adrian tried to pitch in with something encouraging of his own. Still looking scared stiff, Wendy slowly trudged to the line. Adrian leaned close to Natalie. "She is right, though, you know; she had too much of a layoff between practice," he whispered in her ear, "She'd going to need to be absolutely perfect to win this."

"Miracles can happen, Mr. Monk," she told him.

"You and your miracles, every single day," he rolled his eyes, "Is there no way you can't be so unbearably positive all the time? It gives people the wrong..."

"Shhhh!!" Natalie hissed at him. A silence fell over the pavilion as Wendy reached her mark. She closed her eyes and took the deepest nervous breaths imaginable for what seemed the longest time. For a moment Adrian was certain she wasn't going to be able to take the pressure and would keel over at any second. Then without warning she ran forward towards the horse and hit the springboard...

...and the detective couldn't believe it at all: her form was incredibly even more perfect than the Russian competitor's had been. When she stuck the landing without the slightest bounce, the pavilion exploded so loudly that Adrian had to cover his ears hard to save his hearing. Still, it was very close. His eyes turned with hundreds of other towards the judges' table as the officials all conferred, then one by one punched in their final scores...

....which were all perfect except for two, more than good enough for the gold. A roar like no other rose up, prompting Adrian to slam his hands over his ears again, but he was smiling from ear to ear as he rose up and watched the other gymnasts jump in excitement on Wendy, all ill feelings apparently forgiven in victory. The detective waited until the noise abated noticeably before walking over to the pile (although he took care to still keep his distance; he knew full well how quickly germs could spread in close quarters. "Pretty, pretty well done!" he shouted over the din to Wendy, "You, you earned it, really."

Wendy's response was to shriek loudly in delight. The malay went on for another minute or so before the girls rose up and rushed for the medal podium. Adrian tried to turn back to his seat, but was instead bear lifted in the air by an equally ecstatic Natalie. "Stop, what are you doing!!?" he demanded in terror.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Monk," Natalie was in the verge of a happy emotional breakdown that quite frankly terrified him, "My baby's a gold medalist thanks to you."

"Yes, yes, and Julie very much earned it, and I am quite proud for her, now please, in the name of all that's sacred, let go of me!" he pleaded.

Natalie happily obliged, much to his relief. "Come on, we can't miss the ceremony," she dug out her camera and half-dragged him towards the podium. Ghazi and several other I.O.C. officials were handing out the bronzes to the third place Germans. The silver winning Russians looked rather sullen they hadn't won, and only grudgingly accepted their medals. Then the carnal cheer rose up again as the gold medals were brought forward. Adrian howled in dismay as he covered his ears yet again, his cry being totally drowned out by the crowd anyway. Still, he removed his hands momentarily to give a strong proud ovation of his own as Ghazi slipped Julie's gold around her neck (only to shut his eyes tightly as Natalie fired off at least a dozen photographs, blinding him with the camera flash. The cheer ramped up louder again, hinting that Wendy was getting her own medal...

...but abruptly the cheers started dying down. Adrian's eyes flew open. Wendy, rather than wearing the gold medal, was holding in her hand, a confused, doubtful look on her face. Her gaze turned to the right. Adrian followed it to see she was staring at the athletes' benches--more specifically, at the Kosovoan bench, on which a familiar figure was hunched over and sobbing. The crowd the went completely silent as Wendy abruptly left the podium, rushed over to Zlata on the bench, and gently pressed the medal into her hands. She started talking to her softly enough so that no one could hear her words, but Adrian read her lips perfectly: _You deserve this a lot more than I ever could._ Her head hung down, Wendy then walked briskly towards the tunnel, leaving the crowd stunned. Adrian found himself walking forward after her; even with the crowd quieter, he simply had to get out of there anyway. He found Wendy sitting in the hall, slumped on the floor and facing the wall. "I, uh," he fumbled to come up with something to say, "I, um, well,..."

"I know, I'm probably crazy, Monk, I just felt it was something I had to do," she said, not sounding all that convinced, "I just hope it was the right thing."

"Trust me, Wendy, even if it wasn't, it was...well, I think you did good just now," the detective told her.

"Well it's true, I'm no winner and she is," the girl admitted, "She does deserve that medal more than I do. She's a real champion, and I'm a nobody."

"On the contrary, Miss Whitehurst," Ghazi unexpectedly appeared from behind Adrian, smiling strongly himself, "you are very much a winner. Your actions just now are exemplary by any Olympic standards. So do not feel bad at all; you are in fact the biggest champion of these Games."

"You really think so?" she raised an eyebrow, apparently not totally convinced it was all just some mirage.

"Indeed," the I.O.C. president nodded, "And because you've chosen what you have, you will soon find you've won things far more precious than gold. I for one will be happy to use you as an example for future athletes on what they should truly strive for in each Olympiad. So again, I congratulate you deeply. And good luck for any future Games you wish to attend."

He gave her a parting smile as he left. The Teegers filed in behind him. "He's absolutely right, Wendy, you are a real winner to give her your medal like that," Natalie confirmed it for her.

"So I did do well then?" it was finally washing over her that she'd made the right choice.

"It looks like I was wrong; you still are the Wendy I knew," Julie was smiling deeply as she helped her friend up. "And I'm sorry I betrayed your trust," Wendy apologized profusely to her, "None of this would be worth it if you didn't forgive me..."

"Didn't forgive you? After what you've done just now? Are you completely crazy!?" Julie chided her. The two of them shared a warm embrace, all most definitely forgiven. "And to prove it," she continued, "Let's eat out, my treat, if it's OK," she flashed a look at her mother for approval.

"Absolutely," Natalie nodded, "Just call when you're coming back. Oh, and Wendy, don't worry about being alone; you're more than welcome to stay with us until the courts decide who you get to stay with."

"Thanks, Mrs. Teeger," Wendy smiled herself. The girls happily skipped off towards the exit. "I'm glad everything turned out so wonderfully in the end," Natalie sighed, contented.

"Now Natalie, you, you do realize that that same train of thought, that the most valuable thing isn't winning but taking part, doesn't apply to what we're trying to with Trudy, right," Adrian inquired, "We WILL find whoever killed Trudy no matter what and make absolutely sure they're prosecuted or otherwise put out of their misery."

"Oh of course, Mr. Monk," she said, "But come on, loosen up and savor the moment."

"I'm trying to, Natalie, but I can't stop thinking how pointless you forcing me to go undercover as a judge was in the end," he argued, "All I really got out of that was..."

"Charles!" came an all-too-familiar excited cry from up the tunnel. Adrian gulped nervously. "Um, Florianna, nice, nice to see you," he whimpered upon seeing Cadorna scurrying in his direction, "To what do I owe this...?

His question was immediately answered as she threw open her suit to reveal things that Adrian would have preferred to have gone through life without ever seeing. "Take me Charles, take me now you sexy man!" she howled amorously.

Adrian let out a bloodcurdling scream and slapped both hands over his face. "RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!!" he shrieked at Natalie, seizing her wrist and dragged her up the tunnel, trying hard to block out Cadorna excitedly crying behind him, "Don't suppress your feelings, Charles! You know you want me! Come to me and give me everything a man like you can deliver! I LOVE YOU, CHARLES KROGER!!!!"

THE END

* * *

POSTSCRIPT: Now that we know exactly when the series will end, I can sketch out a final scenario with this series of stories and can tell you that in all likelihood there will be two stories left to be written in it. As it stands now, the next will probably be a final crossover (no point in spoiling who I have in mind yet--which is also contingent on what happens for me this Christmas), likely to be started after Season 7 ends. This will be followed by the final story in the series, probably to be started halfway through the first half of Season 8 or an appreciable time after the completion of Story #11, which will wrap up the continuity you've presumably been following for the last 4 years and send everyone--including a couple of the original characters I've created just for the series--off into the sunset, preferably as close to the canonical show as possible, but if liberties may be taken, I am resigned thereto. I hope you'll stay tuned for all this, because I always aim to please.


End file.
